Bed of Roses: MI6
by Azaelea
Summary: Just when Sherlock and John are falling back into the old routine after being kidnapped, chased and almost killed, several surprises turn up at their door and once again, events spin out of control - with one difference. This time, they're MI6.
1. We're going to Vauxhall

Hello my lovelies! Okay, yeah, I'm normal. :D The boys' are back, and ready for action!

This is a sequel to Bed of Roses, but can be read alone, although there are some references back to it, but only at the start. Enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 1**

Snow fell gently as Big Ben chimed for one o'clock. London city was still and silent, almost empty as Dr. John Watson was roused from his very warm and very comfy bed. He blinked as the knock on the door sounded again, and glanced over to the sleeping Sherlock, sprawled, completely naked, on the bed, tangled in the covers. John laughed quietly as he got out and pulled on his boxers, managed to find his pyjama pants under the bed and grabbed a shirt off the back of the chair. Running a hand through his tousled hair, John made his way downstairs.

Every since returning from their kidnapping a month ago, John's limp (real, this time,) was almost gone and he and Sherlock had migrated to his bedroom, because John didn't even want to consider what lurked in Sherlock's. "I'm coming!" he called, quietly, as he manoeuvred his way over the stacks of books and the piles of papers that lay all over the living room floor. Hope whined as she watched him walk over everything and he quieted her with a smile, 'Go to sleep, girl, you have school tomorrow," she gave him a look before padding back to her bed. John chuckled to himself as he made his way down the stairs. That puppy was a part of his and Sherlock's little family, now, and she was going to make a great police dog.

Still smiling slightly, John opened the door and was hit by a blast of cold wind and the sight of Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, "Greg!" John said, his practiced eyes raking over the man's figure. "Hi John," he said, not meeting John's steady gaze, swaying slightly on his feet as he stood at the entrance to 221b.

Greg was still wearing his suit from earlier that day and it was pretty apparent that he had been wandering around London for a while now – in the bloody snow and wind. Grabbing an arm of the soaked suit, John dragged the man into the building and shut the door, with it, the cold that was starting to send him trembling, dressed as he was. "Why the bloody hell have you been wandering around London?" he asked, trying to keep his voice down and using his most firm I'm-a-solider-and-can-make-you-talk expression. For the first time that night, Greg raised his eyes and even in the dark hallway, lit by the light shining from the open door of the flat, John saw the unshed tears in the red-rimmed eyes, "Greg?" he asked, his voice suddenly much softer,

"I shouldn't have come," Greg dropped his gaze and made to leave but John stopped him,

"What's wrong?" John persisted, quietly, gently, and he felt Greg tense, his back to the doctor. _Something's not quite right here…_ a tremor ran through the DI and it took John a moment to realise he was crying.

Eyes widening in surprise, John spun Greg and he broke down, all projection of the hardcore Scotland Yard agent gone. "Hey," John rubbed soothing circles up on his best friend's arms, still keeping some distance between them, a little worried that it might cause the DI more stress, "Hey, It's alright," John swallowed as the man looked anywhere but him. "Upstairs," John commanded, and Greg simply nodded and allowed John to direct him upstairs.

The heat washed over them as they entered, and John closed the door quietly behind him, flicking the light on and examining Greg properly. The snow had ruined the suit, as had the mud and…John swallowed, the doctor in him kicking into gear, "Greg, where are you hurt?" he asked, scanning the man's figure, the bloodstains on the front of the man's shirt now obvious in the light. He shook his head, "Not me…" he mumbled and it was like a dark cloud had descended on John's previously content mood as Greg collapsed onto the couch.

"Stay here," John ordered and pity washed over him as Greg simply nodded, more tears trailing down his face.

Hurrying upstairs, John ignored the still-sleeping Sherlock and moved to their cupboard. He grabbed Sherlock's pants because they ought to fit the DI better than his would. Finding a shirt, a new pair of socks and jocks, plus their spare towel, John gently closed the door behind him as he made his way downstairs. The DI was sitting exactly as he had been left, staring at the wall, but not really seeing it,

'Here," John handed him the towel and the change of clothes,

'John…I can't-"

"Yes you can," John cut him off and pulled him to his feet, "Bathroom's there," he nodded towards it, "You need it. Go," he pushed gently as Greg tried to compose himself, 'I'll be here when you come back," John added.

Shoving his own emotions aside, John walked into the kitchen and put the kettle on. He had a feeling they were both going to need a strong brew.

* * *

Drier, warmer, but not any less dejected than before, Greg walked back into the living room, where a curious, sad and worried John sat, scrutinising him. He accepted the cup of tea as he sat back on the couch. There was silence for a minute and John didn't push it. Something happened to turn a strong man into…well _this. _"She's dead, John," Lestrade finally mumbled and John almost dropped his tea,

"Who-Who's dead, Greg?" he asked, hating himself as it brought fresh tears to the DI's eyes,

"My wife," his voice cracked, "Juli-Julianne," he broke off, as an emotional tidal wave washed over him. He put the tea on the coffee table as John left his favourite armchair and was at his side, pulling the widower into a hug.

At the touch, Lestrade started crying in earnest and John let him, merely holding onto him, knowing that he needed this support, knowing what it was like to loose someone, and if he ever lost Sherlock…The thought was enough to almost have him crying too.

The world's only consulting detective in question appeared at the foot of the steps to see John whispering something into Greg's ear as the man poured his heart out. He felt a stab of jealously before he really catalogued what was happening and stopped himself from running in there and pulling Lestrade off his lover when he realised what Lestrade was saying, in soft, shaky breaths,

"She was so-so sweet. My-my everything, John," he dissolved into more tears and it hit Sherlock that he was talking about his wife. Sherlock glanced into the bathroom. _Clothes on the floor…blood on them, wet, snow on the tops…his wife's dead…_ Sherlock looked back up and, even though he knew that it was rather wrong, he felt his heart warm seeing how comforting John could be.

_He's Lestrade's best friend…he would do that for anyone…_ The detective told himself to get rid of the jealously that was all but turning him green. Sherlock bit back the smile as he swallowed his emotions and walked into the living room as John untangled himself, allowing the DI to lie back, his eyes closed, his breathing harsh. His eyes lit up at he caught sight of Sherlock and banished all un-holy thoughts from his mind that the half-naked detective brought, and walked over to him,

"His-"

'Wife, I know," Sherlock could see the amazement in John's eyes and wanted to just take him back to bed, but knew he couldn't…and he wouldn't. Not with their friend and colleague in such a state. It might just about shatter his heart if he saw them together, happy.

A few months ago, Sherlock would not have given a damn about the inspector…but John had given him a heart. Had taught him to care.

"Poor man," John whispered, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's waist and pulling him into a hug, loving the scent that was purely Sherlock as it washing away his own sadness, "If I ever lost you," he mumbled into Sherlock's collarbone but wasn't allowed to finish as Sherlock kissed the corner of his mouth, stopping pretty much every thought in his head,

'You won't," Sherlock whispered back, playing with John's hair as Greg' breaths calmed down, and fell into a regular pattern, 'He's asleep," Sherlock said, resting his chin on John.

"I know," but John didn't let go and Sherlock chuckled softly,

"Back to bed?" he asked, a tiny hint of hope in his voice but John shook his head,

'He needs us, Sherlock," John looked up at the taller man, 'we need to stay here,"

"I know," Sherlock sighed as John pulled away and cold air rushed to take his place. Sherlock shivered and John rolled his eyes, 'Get a shirt on," he ordered,  
'I'd much rather yours,"

"Shut up," John smiled affectionately as Sherlock made his way back up to their room.

* * *

John settled down in his armchair when there was another light knock on the door. He placed the remote he had picked up, down again, and after turning down Sherlock's offer to get the door, knowing that he didn't really want to leave his latest experiment, John grabbed Sherlock's great coat before going down the stairs.

For the second time that night John opened the door and for the second time he found someone he had not been expecting. Sergeant Sally Donovan, no longer a menace, but, after their ordeal, a good friend, was standing on their top step shivering. "John, have you seen Greg?" she asked, her breath misting in the night. John smiled and opened the door wide,

"Come in before you catch pneumonia," he said and she entered gratefully. Shutting the door and the cold out, John turned to face Sally, "Do you know what happened?" she asked, her dark eyes wide with worry and John nodded, as they climbed the stairs, "Yeah, I do, unfortunately,"

Both of them heaved a sigh of relief as they entered the flat, John finding that his toes were frozen again. Greg was still lying on the couch and he made a small sound that sounded a lot like a whimper before turning so that his back was facing them, his breathing a little harder than normal,

"Hey Sherlock," Sally called softly, well out of the habit of calling him freak, and the detective appeared from the kitchen,

'Ah, Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock said, attempting something like disdain but failing entirely,

'Why so formal?" Sally chuckled,

"Well-" John cut him off with a smirk,

"Don't get him started. We'll be here all night," Sally smiled again before taking a seat. John imitated by falling into his favourite chair, and Sherlock sat on the armrest,

'You don't know how it happened, do you?" asked Sally, breaking the semi-comfortable silence that had fallen, her eyes resting on her boss,

"No," John replied and Sally reached for the cup of tea, not particularly caring that Greg had drunk half of it and was pleased to find it still warm. She took a sip as Sherlock and John waited, 'you remember last week's case, right?" she asked and John furrowed his brow; they had three cases last week, all of which Sherlock breezed through, 'which one?" John asked,

'Jack the ripper copycat?" Sally asked and John nodded while Sherlock just kept looking at Sally,

"Well, Mr. Finch, a.k.a Jack the ripper junior, was being transported last night because of something to do with the trial," she paused, 'He managed to overpower four guards," John raised and eyebrow, and Sally grimaced, "Yeah, I know," she said, "Madness. But he overpowered four guards and then…he made his way over to Greg's house and snuck in through the bedroom window. Julianne was taken by surprise, shot once in the chest." She glanced at Lestrade,

"Mr. Finch then turned to go downstairs but was shot three times by Greg and that, we believe, was when he caught sight of Julianne. The paramedics arrived too late. She was gone and he was in shock. They called me, because he happened to have me on speed dial. By the time I got there, he had disappeared,"

'Disappeared?" asked John, a slightly indignant tone to his voice, "How the hell did they manage to loose him? He could've wandered for hours! He could've died, it's turning into a blizzard out there!" John nodded towards the window and Sally nodded,

'I know,"

Sherlock still hadn't said anything as yet and decided to cut in, "So I take it Mr. Finch is dead," Sally nodded, 'Will Greg be facing trial?"

"I don't think so," The sergeant leant back in the chair, looking between the doctor and the detective, "Well, I'd better get going," she said, getting to her feet and John glanced up at Sherlock who nodded as Sally gathered herself to enter the mess outside,

"Stay the night," said John and she looked relieved,

"Really?"

'Yeah," John took in Lestrade's sleeping form, "He's going to need all of us tomorrow," sally sighed gratefully as she collapsed back into the chair,

'I don't doubt it," she said, as silence fell on the room once more.

* * *

John and Sherlock had managed to fall asleep in the same chair, wrapped around each other, whereas Sally contented herself with the armchair and Lestrade had not woken from a deeply troubled sleep. The view of London that was available through their window was completely obscured by the snow that had collected outside and the fog that had clouded the window from the inside, due to their body heat. It was around four o'clock that Sherlock had been woken by a strange buzzing noise. Looking around the room, Sherlock finally saw what was causing the sound – his phone, which was currently buzzing, as there was an incoming call. He couldn't get up even if he wanted to, thanks to the fact that John had him trapped where he was. Not that he minded.

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep, but the buzzing continued and he opened his eyes again in exasperation. He didn't want to wake John up, but as the phone was in danger of waking the DI, he had to. "John," he whispered and the doctor shifted slightly, nudging Sherlock under the chin, "John," Sherlock bent slightly so he could to nibble on the doctor's ear, rousing him,

"Sherlock," he mumbled, "I'm trying to sleep,"

"I need to get the phone," Sherlock whispered and John opened his eyes,

"Now?" he glanced around in the darkness and saw the lit phone on the side table, "They'll give up eventually,

"It's my brother," John looked back at him,

"Fine," he rolled off Sherlock and onto the floor, quickly taking Sherlock's spot as the detective walked to the side table.

Lifting the phone up and remembering to keep his voice low, Sherlock answered, "What now, Mycroft?" there was a gentle laugh from the other end,

'How's John?"'

"Good. Why are you calling this late?"

"Well, everyone else was calling in, I figured I'd better join up," Sherlock sighed,

'Are you still keeping this flat under watch?"

'As always,"

"Go away," Sherlock mumbled and Mycroft laughed again,

"How's Greg?" he asked, his voice softening just a bit and Sherlock felt a prick of interest at his tone, but decided to store it away for later blackmail purposes,

'He's in bad shape. Why do you want to know?" Mycroft ignored the question and instead said,

'I'm a minute away from the flat, I'll see you then," Before Sherlock could so much as make an indignant sound, Mycroft hung up. Slamming the phone down onto the side table he walked back to the half-asleep John, who was cuddling up to the union jack pillow in the absence of his preferred pillow.

"What's up?" he mumbled sleepily as Sherlock lifted him up enough to get a seat, 'Mycroft is coming," he said and John chuckled, his blonde hair, black in the darkness, falling into his face,

"I need a hair cut," He stretched against Sherlock, yawning, and the detective shook his head, running a hand through his hair, "No," he said softly an John paused to look up, "Keep it long," Sherlock added and John laughed.

As promised, a minute after he had disconnected, there was a knock from downstairs, "Don't get it," Sherlock grumbled as John stumbled to his feet,

"I have to Sherlock," he started down the stairs, but Sherlock was up surprisingly fast for the middle of the night, and had John trapped on the stairs, between his arms,

"Sherlock," John started as Mycroft knocked again,

'I will make it worth your while if you don't answer that door," Sherlock purred, pulling his body flush against John's, but the doctor, despite being intoxicated by Sherlock, was still aware enough of the knocking downstairs,

'Really?' he asked, placing a chaste kiss on Sherlock's lips before pulling back, running a hand up Sherlock's thigh. He leant in and Sherlock turned to follow his mouth, but John whispered before the detective could do anything, "You'll have to do better than that, Sherlock," With that, John easily found the gap between the distracted Sherlock and the bottom of the stairs.

By the time Sherlock composed himself, Mycroft was already inside, dusting snow off himself,

'Good morning, Sherlock," he said, a little too cheerily for this time of the morning,

'What do you want, Mycroft?"

"Oh, it's not what I want," the elder Holmes said, looking between John and Sherlock, "It's what SIS want," with that he led the way upstairs, leaving John and even Sherlock confused.

* * *

"SIS?" asked John, dragging the chair closer to the table, in the kitchen, the white light shining from the ceiling, illuminating every painfully well for this time of the night,

"Otherwise known as MI6," Mycroft nodded as Sherlock sat at the table in the kitchen. Not even he could guess where this was heading,

"What about them?" John asked,

'Well, after your little escapade with the Silver Ring, they want you,"

"Me?" John asked, and Mycroft shook his head,

'Not just you, my dear John," he said, "All of you. Sherlock, Sally, Greg and you, John," John nodded slowly, and Sherlock stood up,

'Right, you've delivered the information, you can go now,'  
"Sherlock!" John got to his feet at the same time as Mycroft,

"No need to worry, John," Mycroft said, 'I wasn't planning on staying," he smiled at the doctor, "But all four of you need to get to Vauxhall by thirteen hundred tomorrow," Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the use of military time but ushered his brother out as John just sat there, reeling from this news,

"Do you know that this means, Sherlock?" he asked, the detective walked back in,

"Yep," Hope padded up to them, wakened by their voices. He reached down and picked her up, cradling her in his lap, 'we're going to Vauxhall," Sherlock leant back and John sighed. This was going to be interesting.

* * *

Nehehe. I'm back. ;) And crazier than ever! :D This is going to be fun.

Aza

xoxo


	2. Back to the army

Poor Greg, huh? Well, it gets a little better. Slowly. :D

Right. Apologies for one mistake. They're not going to Whitehall. They're going to Vauxhall. It took a fair bit of time for me to figure out where the hell MI6 was. And for the future, I would like to say sorry for getting placing wrong. I'll use Google Maps from now on! :D

* * *

**Chapter 2**

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade wasn't quite used to waking up on the couch. He shifted and felt pain in between his shoulder blades. He wondered why Julianne had kicked him out of the bedroom – and then he opened his eyes and the ceiling of 221b Baker Street came into view. Last night came back to him in a rush.

Hearing a thump upstairs, calling out to his wife. Hearing the scream that cut through him. Grabbing his gun, sprinting up the stairs, coming face to face with a murderer. Shooting before he knew what he was doing…and then seeing the bed as the killer fell to the floor. Seeing the white sheets turn red. Hearing his name called out as his love struggled to stay alive.

Greg closed his eyes, chocking back the tears as her words came back. He was leaning over her, fruitlessly trying to compress the wound, "Greg…" she breathed. He could almost feel the breath on his cheek, now, "Greg…you have to promise me…" He tried to tell her not to talk. She laughed, "Promise me…" he said he'd do it. Anything, "you'll move on after me," he was shaking his head before she finished, "Make me happy," she added and he found himself nodding through the tears. One last kiss. That was all he managed as his wife died in his arms. _And it's my fault,_ Greg swallowed, keeping his eyes closed, _my fault that she's gone._

He jumped as he felt a steadying hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes to see John, kneeling down next to the couch, his eyes almost glowing in the semi-light of early morning,

"It's going to be okay," John whispered. The DI stared into those deep, brown eyes, finally finding it in him to nod. He sat up slowly, and John took the seat he had vacated, 'did I wake you?" Greg asked, his throat horrendously sore from the lack of moisture. John handed him a cup of coffee,

"No," John said and the DI raised an eyebrow, finding something immensely comforting about John's presence, "Really," John insisted as he sipped his own coffee, "I was half-awake,"

"That's not fully awake," Lestrade said and John chuckled.

Both Sally and Sherlock were still asleep as the light filtered through the snow covered window, and the fire, no doubt lit by John, crackled in the grate, warming the room as much as the thermostat did, "I'm not entirely sure whether you're up for what's coming today," Lestrade turned so that he was able to see John a bit better, and let his wandering gaze focus back on the doctor, who both looked and sounded like he was choosing his words carefully,

'What is it?" asked Lestrade,

'Mycroft dropped in last night,"

"Yeah?" Lestrade asked, glancing at the door before looking back at John, who was nodding,

"Yeah. He, erm, wants us to go down to Vauxhall,"

'Vauxhall?" Lestrade asked, still sleepy,

'Vauxhall Cross to be more specific," Lestrade took a moment to process this,

'Wait, you mean…SIS?" he asked and John nodded. Lestrade swallowed. He was still aching all over, physically, after last night's exhaustions and mentally, but he needed a distraction,

'What do you say?" John asked, quietly, gently, as if he didn't want to startle his best friend. And Greg was grateful for that. Very grateful, "Yeah, I'm ready for that," Greg plastered on a fake smile, but as he saw John's eyes light up, the smile turned genuine, seeming to break through the pain, even if it was just a tiny chip at it.

* * *

John half wished he had Sherlock's coat as he stood on Vauxhall Bridge Road, squinting into the wind that was cutting at them, and the snow that was drifting past them. Sherlock yanked his coat tighter around himself and Lestrade stared down at the water, moving fast underneath them, while Sally just stared up at the impressive building that housed the offices of the SIS.

'Well that's nice," She said, turning to her companions,

'Yeah," Sherlock said glancing up,

"I've passed it tonnes of times, but I've never really thought I'd be entering it,"

"It looks normal enough from the outside," John said, catching onto what Sally was trying to do. He gave Sherlock a look who understood immediately and turned to Lestrade,

'So, what do you think about this?" he asked and Greg glanced up as if he had forgotten that they were there,

"What? Oh yeah…" He looked up into the grey sky, the glass of the building catching what little light it could from the almost nonexistent sun, "I've been past it many times," He looked over to them to see all of them watching him as if waiting for some sort of reaction. He sighed, "They took a case away from us, once didn't they Sally?" he asked, effectively diverting the conversation away from him,

'Yeah," she said as Lestrade turned to look back out across the water, "They did," she finished rather lamely as they walked into the shadow that the building cast over the pavement.

Continuing their journey is silence, they walked up the front steps, Sherlock taking the lead,

'Very little security," Sally looked around as they entered the building,

"Oh I wouldn't be so sure," Sherlock chuckled, "There are sensors on the gates, they scanned us for a weapon in less than a second. Our picture has been taken and sent through their computers to be confirmed that we are who we say we are, and a scan of our retina occurred back at those doors, just to make completely sure," Sally furrowed her brow,

'How the hell do you know that?" she asked,

'It's Sherlock," John chuckled making sure that Lestrade was walking in between them at all times, and never pulling up last.

Upon entering it was like they had just entered a normal office, with people walking backwards and forwards, and a reception desk that sat in the middle of the entire space, manned by a single man, who had a dark grey suit on, and looked like an other receptionist would. His hair was peppered with grey flecks and his eyes were as blue as the sky on a sunny day, "Can I help you?" he asked, and Sherlock smiled,

'We're looking for Mr. Francis Stone," he said. Earlier that morning, Mycroft had sent them a text that detailed when they were expected and who they were meeting,

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Dr. John Watson? DI Greg Lestrade and Sergeant Sally Donovan?" Sherlock nodded once, and the man smiled, hitting a button on the desk that appeared to do nothing, "Go on through," he nodded towards the elevator, "Fifth floor," This time Sally led as they walked,

"It 's always the fifth floor," John muttered, smiling,

"Know why?" Sherlock asked, turning his head, his eyes locking onto John's,

"There's a reason, now is there?" asked John, not breaking the contact and Sally rolled her eyes and she hit the button. Lestrade was looking everywhere but Sherlock and John. Noticing this, Sally kicked John's leg, making him exclaim, "Ow! What-" she cut him off with a look and he followed his gaze to Lestrade, staring up at the many floors that could be seen from their position,

'Greg?" John called softly, and the DI looked at him, "Are you sure you're alright?"

'Anyone asks me that one more time and I swear I'm going to knock him or her out," The lift pinged open and, comparatively fast to the speed he had been trudging along at, Lestrade stomped on in, smiling slightly, but nobody was fooled by the sudden show of normalcy. John exchanged a worried glance with Sherlock, who subtlety took his hand as the door closed, _we'll work it out._ John squeezed his hand back, _I hope so.

* * *

_

Walking out of the lift they were greeted by a man who looked like he had seen life and lived to tell the tale. A scar ran down his face from left to right and his suit was of the finest cut, and pitch black. His shoes were shinier that John's dress uniform's footwear was and his moustache was trimmed to perfection, the white hair seeming to highlight his light green eyes, "Ah, I'm glad you made it," he said, his accent was relatively mixed. It sounded neither British nor Irish and yet seemed to slip into one then the other.

"So are we," John stepped forward and shook the man's hand. The grip was firm and it was repeated there more times as he welcomed the others, "Follow me," he said, and they did so, walking in a relatively tight group, slightly daunted by the scale on which this office was built. Everyone here seemed to have purpose, and the entire office seemed to either be made of oak that had a light of its own, in a strange way, or glass. It was open and made the place look huge.

Finally, they entered an office, feeling a little less conspicuous as the door closed and the glass frosted over. The man sat at his desk and Greg, John, Sherlock and Sally took the four seats that were waiting, "I, in case you didn't know, am Mr. Stone," he said, "And you are obviously are the team that took down the Silver Ring." They all nodded simultaneously, a little over-awed at this whole situation – even Sherlock.

'We didn't really – take them down," John started but was cut of by a deep throated chuckle,

'No, you only found their head quarters, when our counter part, the security service, MI5, have been trying for five years," Mr. Stone shook his head, "You four are wanted by every organization worldwide,"

'If we're so famous, sir," Sally started a little hesitantly. He turned his powerful gaze on her and she continued, "How can we possibly be espionage agents?"

"Oh your not famous worldwide. Just in all the Allied forces Police departments,"

"Oh," Sally glanced at Lestrade, who was staring at the desk,

"You four have been drafted into MI6," Stone leaned back in his chair, the view of London amazing, in the huge windows behind him, the Thames flashing as the sun broke out from behind the cloud bank,

"Don't we have a choice?" Lestrade asked quietly. John sighed internally – everything was suddenly quiet about him, he could remember a time Lestrade had managed to shout Sherlock down in the middle of the street. Nothing about how Lestrade was behaving felt right and he wanted to make Lestrade feel better…only he didn't know how. Sometimes, he thought, Sherlock had it easy, not really finding the need to care for everyone.

'No," Stone grinned at their expressions, "You're too good for a choice," He suddenly leaned forward, resting his hands on the table, "You, Sherlock, with your deductive powers so great," he turned to John, "You, Doctor, with a heart of gold and your medical expertise," he looked at Sally, "Sally, you're the epitome of reliability, steadfastness, and being street smart," Sally actually blushed and Sherlock laughed under his breath as Stone turned to Lestrade, "and you, DI," the man raised his eyes to look into Stone's, 'You have leadership in you. You have the respect of Sherlock," Lestrade glanced dubiously at the detective and Stone shook his head, "Don't doubt it, he respects you," he said and Lestrade turned back to Stone, his cheeks flushed at the sudden praise. In fact all of them were rather surprised by Stone. Until he said the next sentence,

"But don't get a big head," He pickled up a cherry from the bowl that sat on his desk and popped it into his mouth, "You're not half as good as needed to be our field agents. But you will be," he nodded as if in answer to a question, and Sherlock wondered what would happen if he told his new boss that his wife was cheating on him. Results probably would be not good. John would kill him. Sherlock sighed and glanced over to John. The man was changing him for the better. He missed the days when he could be completely tactless. But then again…he gently brushed his leg against John's his eyes fixed on Stone's and felt the doctor freeze beside him…yeah, he wouldn't want to go back to the days when John was just a friend.

"So," Stone looked at them as they digested everything he said – everything Sherlock had managed to miss, 'you'll go home, pack," Lestrade physically seemed to flinch at the word home. Stone either didn't notice or didn't care, 'and you'll report in front of this building at 0500 hours tomorrow." He got to his feet and the four newly formed agents scrambled to theirs as well, "I'll see you then. Because that's when your training will begin," He almost seemed to bounce with energy as he walked to the office door. He turned in the doorway, to face them as they tried to leave, a steely glint in his eye as he surveyed the bunch. "I hope you'll enjoy your time at boot camp," he added, before stepping out of the way to let them pass. John felt like a stone had dropped into his belly and as they left he took Sherlock's arm for support, almost starting to limp again. Good God. He was going back to the army.

* * *

Neheheh. Oh I can't wait to start the boot camp!

Aza

xoxo


	3. Missing

Sorry for taking forever to upload, but everyone's taking advantage of the last four days of the summer holidays, and I haven't been home very much. School's starting soon…what fun…meh. Well, here's the chapter!

* * *

**Chapter 3:**

Outside, the wind was blowing, strong and powerful, straight into them and was enough to make John wince as it cut into him,

'Where-where now?" he asked, looking at the others,

"Home," Sherlock said, 'we all have to go home," No one needed to look at Lestrade to know that the thought was enough to scare him,

"How?" asked Sally, more to elongate this than having to take Lestrade to the one place he wouldn't want to go.

For the first time in his entire adult life, Sherlock refrained from commenting on how stupid that question was, and instead his eyes scanned the rush of cars that were driving past them, "By cab," he said, looking around for the black car. Lestrade shivered and walked away from the kerb, so that he was leaning on the railing of the bridge, staring down at the water. As Sherlock tried to hail a cab, John walked up to him and laid a hand on his back, "I know you said you'll punch me, but are you okay?" the DI turned his head so that he was looking at John, blinking rapidly to clear the tears that were threatening to spill. He managed a choked laugh, "Right, that's it, what do you want? A black eye or a split lip?" there was a smile on his lips but his eyes said that he was anything but happy. John turned to stare out at the water this time,

"Lip," he said, turning back to his friend, "Definitely lip. Less noticeable," Lestrade swallowed and was about to say something when Sherlock and Sally both called them back, the door of the waiting cab open.

John cursed the bad timing and ushered Lestrade in front of him. The DI was about to say something important.

Sherlock pulled John closer to him to fit Sally and Lestrade in and the doctor tried not to feel too upset that he and Greg had been interrupted. He'd get the DI to talk. After all, whom else did he have now?

The cab moved off and John twisted around so that he could see Sherlock's face, and his light grey eyes, staring off into the distance. _I wonder how he's going to deal with boot camp?_ This almost brought a smile to John's face as he turned back around and settled in for the short ride.

* * *

"SHERLOCK!" an hour had passed and John was still not packed. Generally, he took ten minutes to pack. It didn't matter where they were going. Military training had meant that he was always going to be ready to leave whenever he needed to and in as little time as possible. But Sherlock was not making his life easy – every time he tried to find something, it went missing from its usual place. Now, he was standing in their relatively small living room with his hands on his hips, waiting for a reply. He was greeted by silence. Huffing, John stomped up the stairs, threw his bedroom door open and froze, his mind going completely blank.

The scene in the room was something he had never seen before, "Sherlock," He breathed quietly and the detective, wrapped in a very small towel, his body still steaming from the hot shower, dripping all over their bed, face flushed from the cold air, and standing on the bed, staring up at hole in their ceiling looked at John, his black curls falling over his eyes. He shook them away, splashing John with a little water,

"Hi John," He said, grinning. John stood for a moment longer,

'What are you doing?' he asked, surprised he could even form words anymore,

"I believe it's called looking for my other pair of socks," Sherlock replied. John followed a droplet of water as it dripped down his front, over the muscles on the detective's lean body and into the towel, that, he decided, he didn't really like anymore,

"In the ceiling?" John asked, walking forward, slowly, keeping his eyes glued onto Sherlock, as if this image would disappear should he look away,

"Well yes," Sherlock looked back up, standing on his toes, flexing all the muscles in his body, "I remember, it was an experiment…" He faded off as he stared into the darkness, and was taken completely by surprise when John tackled him off the bed and ripped the towel off before they landed on the floor, both panting for completely difference reasons.

"You've been making my life hell," said John, trailing his eyes down Sherlock's body, seeming, even though Sherlock told himself it was impossible, to burn a trail across him,

"Isn't that why you love me?" Sherlock asked, struggling to maintain composure with _that_ expression on John's face, that hungry look that said he would give anything, _everything_ to have his way with Sherlock,

"I never said that," John whispered back, purposely shifting so that he was straddling the detective's hips, keeping him in place. Sherlock was about to skip the foreplay and get on with what both of them wanted when the phone rang downstairs. They stayed where they were, breathing erratic, and relatively light-headed,

"Don't get it," Sherlock said, tempted to flip them over so that he could make sure John couldn't get it,

"What if it's important?" John asked,

'Who cares?" The phone kept on ringing and John sighed, climbing off Sherlock,

"Damn it," he muttered as he walked back down stairs, trying to get his head back into order. He had to do something about Sherlock. For God's sake, the man managed to make him forget what he was angry about just by being there.

John searched around for a while, trying to find the phone, flinging cushions out of the way and finally, locating it underneath the couch. Pulling it out, he answered it without looking as to who it was on the other line,

"Hello?" John asked, a little gruffer than he would've normally been,

"John?" the doctor almost dropped the phone,

"Greg?" he asked, all thoughts of what he could currently be doing to Sherlock to show his appreciation of the earlier display thrown from his mind, "Are you alright?" there was no response, just the traffic in the background and…water? John wasn't sure, "Greg?" he asked again, "Where are you?" There was silence from the other end again and John was beginning to worry. Suddenly, the line cut and John was left staring at his phone.

Sherlock walked languidly into the room, resting against the doorframe, and John willed himself to stay focused, "That was Lestrade," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Sherlock's face,

'That's great," the baritone voice was even deeper than normal,

"Sherlock," John pleaded, walking over to him and placing his hands on the detective's shoulders, "We need to find him. He wasn't saying anything," John said and Sherlock rolled his eyes,

'Greg's a big boy, he can look after himself," Sherlock brought John closer, placing both his hands on the doctor's hips, "and we only have today before we have to go to boot camp," Sherlock kissed John's neck, "and there's no…kissing…allowed…" each word was broken with a kiss and John's struggle to not give into the tempting man grew into an all-out war,

'Sherlock," he pulled back and looked into his eyes, the pupils fully dilated, "Sherlock," he repeated, and the detective finally gave up,

"That means I have to get dressed," he muttered and John laughed,

'Maybe not," he said, looking down at his phone,

'What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, starting to understand what John was saying,

'Sherlock," it was John's turn to turn on the charm and he ran his hand lightly along Sherlock's spine, "I need you to call Mycroft," he said and Sherlock groaned,

'No," he said, about to turn around, when John wrapped his arms around the detective's torso,

"I'll repay you," he said, his voice so low, Sherlock would've missed it if he took a breath in, "magnificently," John added and Sherlock held out his hand,

"Give me the phone,"

* * *

Mycroft was in the middle of a very satisfying sushi roll when Anthea walked into his office, 'Mr. Holmes?" She asked and he looked up,

'What is it?" he asked, the chopsticks halfway up to his mouth,

"It's about Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft all but dropped the sushi he was holding,

"What?" he asked, regaining his composure quickly

"DI Lestrade," Anthea repeated more forcefully, as if she were worried that she wasn't getting through to her boss,

"What's happened?" Mycroft asked, getting to his feet and walking over to her. She held the phone out and Mycroft snatched it up,

'Hello?" he asked,

"Hello, Mycroft," Sherlock drawled on the other end as John forced him into some pants, despite the consulting detective's earlier protests. John said something about how he wouldn't be able to pack if Sherlock continued to wander around naked. The doctor ignored Sherlock's comment about how that was the point of it all,

"Sherlock?" Mycroft couldn't actually believe his little brother was calling,

"Yes, it's me," Sherlock's earlier good mood was evaporating by the millisecond, "You need to figure out where our DI has gone to,"

"What do you mean? Why isn't he with you?"

'Doesn't matter," Sherlock said, "Just figure out where he is. Check his home, check Scotland Yard, and just find him,"

"And why do you think I could find him?" Mycroft asked, more for show than anything else,

'Because you're you," John cut in, "I got a call from him about five minutes ago. He sounded completely out of it," John let the worry creep into his voice, "We need to find him," he said. Mycroft was already walking into his office and was ready to start dialling his many associates,

'We will," he assured, "how long do we have?" he asked,

"O500 tomorrow," John replied,

"Damn," Mycroft muttered, "Twelve hours – that isn't enough,"

"It had better be," John walked to the window and away from Sherlock, who was trying to get rid of the phone, "I heard water near where he was…and traffic,"

"Water and traffic?" Mycroft repeated, realisation dawning on him and John at the same time

"Check every bridge with a camera in London and surrounds," John said, but Mycroft was already doing that,

"I am," He replied, sitting down at his computer and paging half a dozen of his men, "Listen, you and Sherlock need to get into a cab and start looking. Drive around. I'll text you the bridges that I've eliminated as I eliminate them,"

"Right," John hung up and turned around to face Sherlock, who was still lounging on the doctor's favourite chair, watching John,

"I have to put a shirt on, don't I?" he asked, a little sullenly,

'The shirts not the biggest of our problems, Sherlock," John ran upstairs and Sherlock followed at a more leisurely pace. John threw a shirt at him as he grabbed his jacket,

"Let's go," he said, not waiting for Sherlock to do the buttons up, and dragging him down the stairs. Grabbing his own phone, John also pulled Sherlock's coat and scarf off the stand before slamming the door behind him.

Running onto the street, the cold wind blasting them and making Sherlock redouble his efforts to get full dressed, John actually managed to hail a taxi and pulled Sherlock in,

'Take us to the closest bridge," He said and the cabbie nodded once and pulled away from 221b Baker street.

* * *

Nehehe. Where's Lestrade? Not suicidal I hope….nehehehe…okay yeah. I'm better.

Apologies for sending anyone around the bend. But I'm halfway there and needed some company ;)

Aza

xoxo


	4. Moments

Hey! I'm really sorry for the delay, but I now officially hate Cyclones. Yasi's a pain. Oh well. Here's the next chapter and I'm sorry for it being so short. It just refuses to stick to the story line. No matter how hard I try. The next one will be longer. I promise.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

"Vauxhall Bridge?" John asked, as the cab wove its way through the pre-rush hours traffic,

'Yeah," Sherlock nodded and the cabbie called from up front,

"What's the rush?" he asked,

"A life depends on it," John muttered and he jumped as the phone buzzed on his lap,

"Mycroft?" he asked, putting the phone on speaker,

'Not Vauxhall," the elder Holmes said, "He's not there,"

'Next bridge!" John said and the cabbie rolled his eyes, and drove to the right to wait for the next turn. Sherlock took the phone,

'Where else have you checked?" he asked,

"All the major ones, Westminster, Tower Bridge, London Bridge, Southwark, Blackfairs Road, " There was thump from Mycroft's end and a lot of swearing on his part,

"And?" Sherlock asked,

"Nothing," The desperation was apparent in his voice,

"How many others do you have camera feed on?" John cut in, listening to the conversation,

'All the ones I have camera feed on do not contain our DI," John swore and stared out the window,

'Dammit," he said,

"Bring Sally into the search," Sherlock said,

"I did, she's up near Lambeth Bridge,"

The cabbie pulled over on the curb and turned to face them, "It may not be my business, but why are you so desperate to find this DI?" he asked. Sherlock was about to tell him to keep driving when John realised they could use his insight,

"Our friend has gone missing, and the last contact we had from him, we could hear water and traffic in the background," John explained and it dawned on the cabbie,

"He won't be near any of the main bridges," Even Mycroft was listening as he continued to explain himself, "What I mean is, if you're going to jump, it might as well be somewhere a bit more private. Where someone won't stop you or drag you off,"

"And?" Sherlock asked, trying to contain his impatient tone

"Well, there are the small bridges to consider. You know, like going over smaller rivers, or in parks," John sat up suddenly, cracking his head on the side of the cab.

Sherlock almost dropped the phone as the thump echoed around the cab,

'Ow," John moaned, irritated, his eyes watering, and head thumping,

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, dropping the phone,

"Are you alright, sir?" The cabbie asked, his eyes wide with concern,

'What happened?" Mycroft asked his voice seemingly far away from the phone as Sherlock dragged John's head around to look for any damage, ignoring his brother,

'I'm fine,' the doctor said, wrenching his head out of Sherlock's death grip and turning to face the cabbie, not entirely sure that the black spots he was seeing was going to cause any major problems,

"Hyde park," he said,

"What?" the cabbie asked,

"Hyde park," John repeated, and the cabbie started the engine. Sherlock continued his scrutiny and John felt himself flush at the look he was getting from Sherlock,

"I'm alright," He muttered, a little unnerved by the steely grey eyes that were fixed on him.

Sherlock didn't even know why he was overreacting as he was. He knew that a hit like that would do nothing more that hurt an maybe cause a slight headache – and yet…he settled back further into the cab trying to get his breathing under control – and yet it was like John had just been shot. The worry he had felt was so intense, it was like nothing else mattered. He wouldn't have cared if he was the one who was shot, just so long as John was okay, so would he be.

Then, deciding to hell with what other thought, Sherlock leant over, grabbed a fistful of John's jumper and brought their lips together for a kiss that blew all thoughts of Lestrade out of the good doctor's mind.

John honestly loved the taste of Sherlock. He did. That coffee taste that lingered accompanied by something that was purely Sherlock – he loved it. Moaning into the kiss, John pulled Sherlock down towards him, bringing more of their bodies in contact. Mycroft was saying something but all his other senses just seemed to shut down.

"S-Sh-Sherlock,"

It took his three attempts to get the detective's name out as they broke apart for air and it was almost Sherlock's undoing, but so far, amazingly, the cabbie had no idea what just happened, and John knew he had to stop this now. Because if he didn't this would lead to events that he would rather _not _occur in the back of a moving cab as they raced to find their possibly suicidal friend who, with them, was expected to go to boot camp the next day.

"Not here," John panted, as Sherlock moved even further, his weight more than welcome, seeming to tower over John, the greatcoat warming both of them up as draughts of air hit them through the numerous cracks in the old cab, and Sherlock observed John millimetres apart, the laugh lines that ran around his face, the way his eyes were glinting despite there being so little light in his current position, the way his breaths were coming faster the more Sherlock put weight on him, the way his eyes were getting darker...

'Sherlock!" Mycroft yelled, his voice distorted by the phone, finally breaking the spell and making Sherlock move to a more respectable distance, and allowing John to take in a deep breath, his entire body trembling with anticipation,

"Yes Mycroft?" John didn't know whether to yell at Mycroft or thanking him from stopping them, because God knew, he didn't have much willpower left.

"Where are you going?' the elder Holmes repeated, not entirely sure he wanted to know what happened between the moment John hurt himself and that point John finally answered his calls,

"Hyde Park," John's voice cracked and he winced as a swoop low in his belly told him that he really needed to think of something _other_ than the man who was still sitting too close for concentration,

"John, honestly," Sherlock whispered, leaning in so that he needn't raise his voice very much at all, "To think that it only takes a kiss," he breathed. John shifted away from him, and crossed his legs as they negotiated the traffic,

"Sherlock," It was a warning, but only served to make the detective grin,

"What's the matter, John?" he asked, "Don't have a _growing_ problem do we?" he asked, the innuendo all too clear and on the other end of the line Mycroft blanched. Oh this is just what he needed. His brother and John's dirty talk…well…at the rate they were going at, it would take them a while to get to Hyde bloody Park.

Mycroft leaned back in his chair, his eyes flicking from screen to screen, looking for signs of the DI. At least the ride was going to be something to use as blackmail at the annual Holmes Christmas ball.

* * *

It's filler. Not much, I know. But crappy week. No power makes me very grumpy. Anyways.

Love you for all your support! and Moriarty comes in soon...for those Moriarty fans...they don't exist do they? Well...he's cute. In that evil sort of way. Yes. I'm mad. ;D

Aza

xoxo


	5. Rock the boat

Heyas! and here's the next instalment. Enjoy! Apologies for getting any placements wrong. I'm Aussie. and I used Google maps. Blame Google maps ;)

* * *

**Chapter 5**

The cab pulled up in front of the famous park's main gate and John turned to his companion,

"Stay here." He said and Sherlock raised an eyebrow,

'It would be better if the two of us were out there," he said and John nodded,

"I know, I know," he swallowed and looked at Sherlock, 'Do you trust me?" he asked, his voice a whisper. Immediately, Sherlock softened, the side he showed only to John shining through and John felt his heart melt,

"With my life," Sherlock said, cocking his head to the side, "That's actually quite literal," he added, breaking the moment. John allowed a small smile, "Stay here," he said and Sherlock nodded. He hated being the one who had to stay behind. But John asked, so he would listen. _Anyway,_ he conceded as John climbed out of the car, _I just run off. At least John tells me where he's going. And when._

The slightly warmer afternoon air hit John and he winced as he walked away from the curb and into the park, entering the relative tranquillity that was Hyde Park. The noise of the city just seemed to drift away as he jogged lightly along the path, following it as it wound along. The trees that he passed waved gently in the breeze, the sound comforting, warm, and welcoming. John inhaled the earthy scent that surrounded him as he hurried past couples sitting on the grass, enjoying the calm weather. He was sure that it would turn into a storm soon, but he smiled at the thought, and couldn't blame them for wanting to enjoy every moment. Hell he'd happily be here with Sherlock…only, the man couldn't sit still for more than twenty minutes – max. That would've been a failure if they tried it. John smiled as he kept up the light pace.

He took a right and picked up the pace, his thoughts on Sherlock – especially on how insatiable Sherlock seemed to be these days – he was like a rabbit in spring. John shook his head as he continued, glad to find that his stamina had not in anyway reduced. His thoughts wandered as he finally reached exhibition road and turned left, running up it with all the determination of a man on a mission. He knew what had led him here – a thought that floated through his mind before he almost concussed himself. Lestrade had told him once, when he was down at the pub with him, about how once, Juli and him had sat for half day, near the bridge that crossed the river, serpentine, and he had a hunch. He only hoped that it was right. He continued on his way and broke away from the path and onto the grass. Heading to his right, he kept running, his feet thudding on the lawn as the wind blew just that little bit harder, erasing any trace of warmth John had thought he felt.

He cut through the sparse trees, trying not to trip over any roots, and the amount of people lessened. After all, it was the middle of a working day. Soon, the only sound was his steps on the soft ground below, softened by all the rain they had been having. John kept his eyes ahead of him, stumbling as he hit the roots of the massive oaks that spread out around him. His breath caught as he saw a figure, leaning against a tree, staring out at the water, spreading out in front of him, nothing except his chest moving. John stopped taking in the DI's condition. He was in one piece – at least, physically he was. He didn't see John standing, about fifty meters from where he was, and John sighed. Now for the hard bit. Finding out what the hell that call was about.

John walked forward, as his breathing returned to normal and stopped in front of the DI. He sunk to the ground, ignoring as the wetness seeped through his pants, and looked at the DI,

"John?" he asked, confused,

'Yeah," John said gently, not surprised the DI didn't remember the call yet,

'What are you doing here?" he asked, shifted slightly. John's brow furrowed,

'You called, remember?" he asked, laying a hand on the DI's shoulder,

"No," Lestrade shook his head, his voice a little stronger as he came back to life, the walls he had held the entire cab ride home earlier that day locking back into place,

"It was your voice," John said, suspicion starting to creep into his mind. The DI wasn't that out of it that he would forget the call altogether, right?

"I never called you, John." Lestrade asserted.

Both men jumped as a man stepped out from behind a tree three meters away. His deep laugh boomed around the silent clearing, and John swore as he recognised him,

'Stone!" he exclaimed, and the agent laughed,

'Indeed" he said, walking towards them,'

"What the hell is this all about?" John asked,

'Oh, just a little test," he pressed a button on the stopwatch he had been holding and both John and Greg gaped at him,

'What is wrong with you?" John exclaimed, getting to his feet, outraged and Greg joined him, staring at their new boss. He was not in the slightest perturbed by their reactions,

"I needed to know how you worked together," He said, "Your response time was fantastic. You obviously care for each other. I believe that Miss. Donovan is searching at all the bridges in the vicinity and Mr. Holmes is sitting in the cab outside the park,

'Bridges?" Lestrade asked looking at John and the doctor flushed,

'We-we-thought-he called us-and-we thought-you-well-" John stuttered and Stone laughed again. Lestrade looked fairly affronted,

"How'd you know where I'd be?" he asked, turning to Stone,

"We followed you when you didn't go straight home. We called John, and using an old recording-"

'You have a recording of me?" Lestrade asked, everything moving way too fast. John was just staring at the man in front of them,

"Yeah," he shrugged like it was perfectly normal, "He got worried and they thought you were suicidal." He shrugged again, smiling slightly, "They went looking for you,"

"You bastard," John finally managed, his fists clenched, as he glared at Stone. The man didn't so much as blink.

'Oh calm down," he said, as the two men just kept standing and staring, trying to control their anger, "It just sealed the deal,"

'You are a bastard," Lestrade said, looking at John, and placing a calming hand on his shoulder, "You come here," he said, taking a step closer to Stone, "To the last place I went with my wife and you-you PLAY US!" The last words came out as a shout as Lestrade finally found the words.

All the tension that had been building since he left his wife exploded and he grabbed Stone by the lapels, the first glint of fear entering the man's eyes, "YOU COME HERE AND _USE_ ME FORSOME SORT OF TEST?" He roared, pinning the man, who was a couple inches taller and several kilograms heavier than he was, to the tree. John ran forward and grabbed Lestrade by the arm,

"He's not worth it," He said, and Lestrade turned his head slowly, to look at John. His chest was heaving with emotion and his eyes were burning, gluing John to the spot,

'You need to relax," he said, putting a hand on Lestrade's arm, ignoring the struggling Stone, who still couldn't move from Greg's death grip, "Relax," John repeated, hoping the worry in his own eyes wasn't showing.

Greg swallowed and then, suddenly, he stepped back and Stone slid to the ground, coughing as the air rushed back into his lungs. Lestrade kept looking in John's eyes. The deep, loving eyes, eyes that had seen torture, survived torture, seen loved ones die, almost died himself; it was those eyes that was keeping the DI where he was. That stopped him from taking everything out of the MI6 agent. Which was tempting. Hell, John had to control himself, but he knew that the DI needed time. And Stone just happened to push him over the edge,

"Are you alright?" he asked, and Lestrade nodded,

"Yeah," His voice cracked. From the ground, Stone made a sound and John looked back at him to check whether or not he was actually chocking. And then he realised that the man was laughing. Sitting there, his eyes glinting, laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world.

"What's so funny?" John asked coldly,

"You lot," Stone gasped, getting to his feet and dusting himself off. He shook his head, and rubbed his neck, 'ahhh," he said, looking at the doctor and the detective, "I'll see you tomorrow," With that, just as simple as that – John was still in half a mind to throw him into the river – Stone walked away, still laughing.

'What was that?' Lestrade asked and John hook his head, clapping the DI on the back,

'The reason we were on this wild goose chase," John chuckled and pulled the DI gently along with him, as he started walking along the park, the anger dissolving as relief took its place. They walked in silence for a few minutes, the DI contemplative, before he finally spoke up,

'You really cared that much about me?" he asked and John stopped walking. The DI took a few more steps and turned to face John,

'Of course," John's face was open, loving, sweet – himself– and Lestrade felt something inside him move. The past twenty four hours was like walking as if a curtain had been thrown over his sun, not allowing it to warm him, and he had frozen, inside. Like he didn't even have a heart anymore. As he stood there, on that green grass, and with the trees on either side of them, John looking at him, a slightly curious light in his brown eyes, he felt the ice block around his heart thaw a little.

"Thank you," he said, and John smiled, the smile that made the sides of his crinkle just a bit, and the smile that the DI was coming to miss whenever he wasn't around.

"Let's get back," John said, bringing Greg out of his reverie,

"Let's," the DI motioned for John to go first and followed behind. He was glad they were going to boot camp. He would get to spend the next two weeks with John.

* * *

If you had walked up to Doctor John Watson, forty-eight hours ago, and told him that he was going to be standing in front of SIS headquarters, his bags packed for boot camp, shivering in his boots, he would've laughed in your face and told you that you're insane. Now he was the one who was feeling like his depraved brain has conjured up another false reality, in which him and all his friends were trapped.

Unfortunately, as John put his bags down and the cold bit at his nose, he knew it couldn't be a dream. He was shivering way too violently and his heart was beating far too rapidly in his chest.

'John, you need to calm down," Sherlock laid a comforting hand on the doctor's shoulder, although, through the five layers, John barely felt it. He did however feel Sherlock's scorching eyes on his and felt his face flush. Sherlock chuckled and was very tempted to move closer when a second cab drove up and John stepped away, gently, to show he wasn't rejecting Sherlock, just putting some respectable distance between them. Sally threw a bag out onto the cement and climbed out onto the footpath. Paying the driver, she turned to her partner's watching as she kicked her bag towards them.

"Did the bags do something to you?" John asked, mildly, amazed that he was even able to speak – it felt like every part of his body was made out of granite as he lost feeling in it,

'Yes," Sally replied,

'Technically speaking-" Sally clapped him on the shoulder and held his gaze,

"Don't finish that sentence Sherlock," she said

'Why?" Sherlock asked cheekily and John rolled his eyes, tuning as he heard another cab,

'Because," Sally grinned, "I will ensure there is some damage to the family jewels," Sherlock looked slightly miffed and John bit back a laugh before letting it out, the sound resonating off the silent buildings, and water that was not to far away.

Lestrade had seen the three people he was to meet up with on the curb, from further down the street and fought the heavy curtain that was lying around him. He had to go back to his house to get his clothes. He had to face the blood on the sheets. He barely made it out of there. It had taken all of his willpower not to just stop and jump out of the window his own, personal apocalypse had climbed through. As he climbed out of the Taxi and the sound of John's laughter, loud and clear reached his ears, the shroud lifted and he was able to see clearly again. He pulled his bag out of the back, paid and made his way over to the group, a genuine smile on his face as he took in their laughing faces – well, Sally and John was laughing – Sherlock was pouting.

'Awfully happy for the morning, don't you think?" he asked, putting his bags down,

"Who said anything about being happy?" Sherlock mumbled, irritated and John laughed again, clapping the man on the back,

"No one ever said you were happy," he grinned and both he and Sally dissolved in a fit of laughter. Greg rolled his eyes, feeling truly at home for the first time in days, as he watched the people around him.

They were still chuckling and throwing constant jabs around when they heard a growling in the distance, which was probably a car, but it was way to early for sane thoughts, 'If that's an earthquake, I swear I'm going to kill someone," Sally said,

'What if we're already dead?" Greg asked and she grinned,

"I'll get Sherlock to think of a way to resurrect you. Use that brain of his, you know," Sally replied and Sherlock raised an eyebrow,

"You'd go to all that trouble for me?" Greg asked, and John grinned. Not just because this was hilarious, but also because here was the old DI. The DI that used to yell at them for stupidity, laugh with them when Sherlock pouted and tell Sherlock off for being so happy about a murder.

"Hell yeah," Sally nodded; "Only so I can kill you again," Lestrade rolled his eyes as Sally chuckled.

They quietened as a black car turned onto their road. Ever since the kidnapping all of them were fairly wary of black tinted cars that pulled up next to them. Sherlock called it irrational fear, John called it completely normal, Greg decided that he didn't care if anyone else thought he was nuts, he was just wanted to avoid those sort of cars for now and Sally said that they were all idiots.

The car stopped a metre from where they were standing, staring at the thing as if it were a bomb as Stone stepped out. John and Greg exchanged a glance. Both had decided against telling anyone of what happened at the lake, and thanks to Sherlock's aroused state, he had not been able to concentrate enough to figure out what had been happening in the forest from the way that the DI's tie was aligned with his shirt. John subtly running his hand up and down his leg had aided that process.

"Ah, good morning agents!" the SIS director said, wrapping a scarf around his neck and shutting the door as he walked towards them, his arms spread wide as if he actually wanted to hug each of them. John wouldn't actually put it past the man. "What a wonderful day to be starting your training, right?" he asked. Receiving no response other than their glares, ranging from Sherlock's mildly irritated to Lestrade's baleful one, Stone sighed.

"Listen, I understand that some of you," He glared pointedly at Greg who just looked straight back at the man, "don't want to be here," he went on, 'but your country needs you. She needs you to be strong, to put yourself in the line of fire to save the civilians who believe that the government is for them," John rolled his eyes. This was almost identical to the speech given to him before he was shoved off a plane and landed smack bang in the middle of a desert. No idea where he was, no idea what to do. Just follow the others and think of nothing but Queen and country. He shook his head and bent down to pick up his bag, erasing the pictures of those rolling dunes and the sudden, random and dangerous attacks of the militia that were hidden under them.

"You can skip the pep talk," he said, as the other copied his movements, 'we don't have a choice anyway," With that he pushed past Stone and opened the door, climbing into the blissfully warm cab, waiting for everyone else to join them and wondering just what the hell they had gotten themselves into.

* * *

As the car drove away from MI6, John leaned back as Stone pulled out an ipad,

"Amazing," Sherlock said, 'You know how to use one of those?' The others had to hide their smiles. They knew they were testing the man's patience, but they weren't voluntary agents. They had been dragged into this and weren't going down without a fight.

'Yes, I do," he said, through gritted teeth, 'Moving on from what I know or don't know," He flicked it off sleep and waited for the screen to appear fully, "right," He leaned forward and held the screen out to all of them. On it was a fact file of a man, dressed in army uniform, the beret sitting a little too lopsidedly on his head,

"Do you know who this is?" he asked, the question was directed at John and the doctor felt all eyes on him as he nodded,

'Scout Trott," he said, 'One of the best drill sergeants," Sally groaned next to him and he smiled just a little bit,

'Exactly," said Stone, as the car picked up pace, and Sherlock was sure they just turned onto the A3,

'Where are we going?" he asked. Stone grinned wickedly, the light from above them illuminating up all the shadows on the weathered face,

"You'll see."  
"How long is the drive?" Sally asked and Stone was reminded just a little of taking his children to the beach. They asked as many questions as these two did,

'About two hours. Depends on traffic," Stone replied and Sherlock's mind flicked through all the possibilities. He sat back, copying John and the other two relaxed as well.

_Interesting_, Stone thought, _they copy John._ He observed the doctor, who leaned on Sherlock's shoulder as he closed his eyes to catch up on some sleep. Stone saw a flicker of something – he didn't know what, as Greg watched John and Sally decided she needed some sleep as well and contented herself with leaning against the window. He chuckled to himself as he too, settled back for a quick nap; they were going to make for a good year.

Even if it was filled with insubordination.

* * *

As the rhythm of the car below them changed and slowed, all the soon-to-be operatives woke up, slowly, as the first rays of sun cracked the horizon. Stone yawned loudly as he stretched and John stared out at the windows as they passed the many buildings,

'Where are we?" he asked, pushing back the thoughts of dejavu he was feeling as that was the same question they asked themselves a million times when they were lost and alone somewhere in England – which, they quickly learned was not a good position to be in.

"We, my friends, are in Portsmouth," Stone said, grinning as he recognised the buildings outside,

'Portsmouth?" Lestrade asked, sitting up straighter,

'You heard me" The Director looked at the DI as the man rolled down the windows and the wind hit them, waking everyone up fully and drawing a miaow of sorts from Sally.

"What's going on?" she mumbled, looking around her,

'We're going somewhere," John said and Sherlock chuckled,

'Well obviously," He said and John rolled his eyes,

'We're going somewhere in Portsmouth," Stone said, making Sally look at him,

'Why?" she asked and Lestrade answered, being the first to cotton on to what was happening,

'We're going to the docks," he said,

'If this is a training exercise, why couldn't it have been done at the London docks?" Sherlock asked and Stone sighed. There was no damn suspense with these people. They wanted answers and they wanted them right now.

"Do you really want to go diving in the Thames?" he asked, the good humour evaporating. After all, to deal with these four you _did_ rather require the patience of a saint,

"No," John said, leaning over Lestrade to get a good look outside at the waking harbour town – and then it clicked,

'Diving?" he asked, spinning around to look at Stone. Sherlock felt the increased heart rate and noticed the wide eyes, and the flash of fear that appeared in their tawny depths,

'Yep," Stone smirked, 'Why? Scared, Major?" he asked, using the rank that John had not been addressed by since his return to England. John's jaw tensed and he looked away, back out the window,

'What's down there?" Sherlock asked, siting forward, the adrenaline already beginning to pump through him,

"Why don't we let the Major tell us?"

"Don't call me that," John said, turning back to Stone.

'What's down there?' Sherlock asked again, oblivious to the way John tensed up at the mention of whatever was down there,

"It's dangerous," he said, looking at Stone,

'We have a team on back up," he said, and John laughed sourly,

"Right, because when the damn sea caves in on us, they'll be so much help," he said and Sally sat up straight,

'What do you mean the sea caves in on us?" she asked, a slightly hysterical note to her voice,

'I mean," John looked at her, then Sherlock and the Greg, all of whom were watching him with apprehension on their faces, "That we're diving into a sunken ship," He turned back to Stone, 'One that will no doubt have something he wants us to retrieve as part of our so called training," The disdain in his voice was pretty obvious, and Stone settled back, looking like the cat that got the rat.

'Ah, doctor," He smiled slightly and John broke the eye contact, 'You certainly know how to make something overly dramatic," Stone looked at the others, as the car took one last turn and began to slow down even more and coming to a stop. Everyone stared out the windows and their eyes fell on the fifty-foot boat that was bobbing in the water, their drill sergeant standing at its helm, staring at the car, like a figurehead of some grand English boat. Stone leaned over them and opened the door, the cold air rushing in to take the warm and comforting air. Everyone watched as the agent climbed out,

"What are you siting there for?" he asked turning as he realised they weren't moving, 'you'll be fine," he assured them, as Lestrade climbed out first.

When all of them were standing on the pier and the sergeant was heading toward them, Stone added, "Just make sure you don't rock the ship…you'll regret it," John stared at his nerve and Stone smiled back sweetly at the man, "Enjoy," he mouthed, as he climbed back into the car, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Yay! They're finally beginning training. And you didn't really think I was going to kill Greg when the fun was only just beginning? I'm not mad.

Review? 0_0 Pwease?

Aza

xoxo


	6. Respect

Hello all! Nehehe. Here's the next Chapter and love you for your support!

* * *

**Chapter 6**

The sergeant took in the group in front of him, three male, and one female. He snorted, 'As if they allow a woman into the field" he muttered under his breath, coming to a stop as Stone climbed back into the car and left them staring at him. He didn't bother to acknowledge them. It wasn't like there was anyone else here for them to meet.

Drill Sergeant Scout Trott would never have volunteered for a mission like this. In two weeks he was meant to create a commando; that would normally take a year and half. He recalled the files he read as, after seeming to discuss what their options were, _not many_ he thought to himself, they started to walk towards him.

One of them, Scout's electric blue eyes searched before he latched onto John, taking in his stance, the way he seemed to lead the others forward, was an ex-army medic. A major. Scout almost grinned. He would get to order a major around. Now that was not something he could do everyday. He turned his attention to the tallest of the lot. Curly black hair falling gently over steel grey eyes, the only one who was staring right back at him. _Consulting detective, _he thought, _smart, arrogant and in love with the major…what's his name…John Watson._ Scout turned his attention to the female. _Good figure, seemingly in shape, comfortable with all he guys…worked with them before,_ _then, _Scout turned to the last of the group. The man was talking more than the others, but there was something in his eyes, _Sadness,_ Scout thought. He'd seen that look in his men, after they'd just lost their best friend on the battlefield; _File said he lost his wife three days ago. Bloody Government,_ He kept the customary scowl that he liked to associate with their government and their stupid decisions, off his face. He didn't believe that anyone was ready for active duty after a loss like that.

Finally, the group stopped in front of the drill sergeant, and for a split second, they took each other in, the group noting the ebony black hair in it's crew cut, the cold blue eyes, the tanned skin and the bulging muscles, "Drill Sergeant Trott,' he said, extending his hand for anyone to take and was not surprised when the doctor took it first,

'Major John Watson," John held his hand out, respect in his eyes and a smile on his face. Thirty seconds and Scout already liked the doctor, _damn; there goes my plans for ordering him around,_

"Nice to meet you, Doctor," he said, shaking the man's hand.

"DI Greg Lestrade," Lestrade shook the Sergeant's hand,

"Police?" Scout asked, smiling slightly and Greg smiled,

"Yeah, transferred," he said and again, Scout picked up the sadness, lingering in his eyes. He turned to Sally, "Police Sergeant Sally Donovan," she said, grasping his hand. He nodded,

'Nice to meet you," he replied, his tone crisper than what he used with the others and Sally exchanged a glance with John who shrugged slightly, _Give him some time,_ it seemed to say and she nodded slightly. Lastly, Scout turned to Sherlock, "Sherlock Holmes," the detective extended his hand and Scout took it,

"I've heard a lot about you," he said, as a cold wind whipped around them and brought the sounds of a waking city with it.

'I'm sure you have," Sherlock smiled slightly, and Scout nodded, breaking the handshake and turning towards their boat, "That, is the Blood gold," he said and John almost dropped the bag he was holding,

"Wait," he said, the fact that he didn't know this man and didn't want to be here, forgotten, as excitement coursed through him,

"Are we talking about _the_ Bloodgood?" The doctor asked and Sherlock raised an eyebrow,

'That is what he said John, have you lost the sense of hearing?" John ignored him, making Sherlock wonder whether the doctor had indeed gone deaf, as he stared, incredulous at the sergeant,

"You heard me, Major," The Sergeant smiled and John shook his head,

'It's just a boat, John," Sherlock said, walking forward and leading the others towards it. The soldiers almost stopped walking,

'Just a boat?" Asked John,

"Well, what's so special about it?" asked Sally asked, as they walked along,

'It's the boat that saved the SAS strike team," John answered and joined the sergeant up the front, walking side by side, making the others feel like they were really out of their depth this time.

* * *

Approaching the boat, their shoes thudding on the wooden boards below, John threw his bags onboard as soon as he was within range and, reaching up for the rail, pulled himself up with about as much effort as Sherlock would need to solve a triple homicide, and was quickly followed by the Sergeant. The others stood and stared as the men righted themselves and turned back to look at the others, staring at the three metres between them and the deck of the _Bloodgold._

'What are you waiting for?" John asked. It didn't take the deductive powers of Sherlock to see that even though John didn't choose to be here, this was his element. This wasn't a crime scene that Sherlock took over and worked around, leaving John as his aide and this wasn't Scotland Yard, where the DI and his sergeant were known and welcomed, meaning John was an outsider. This was John's world, and as he stood next to the uniformed drill sergeant, it became pretty apparent that there really was nowhere else that John belonged. He grinned down at them,

'What?' he asked, chuckling, "Don't tell me you need a gangplank to get on," John looked at the sergeant,

'We just…pull ourselves aboard?" Sally asked,

'Yeah," the soldiers chorused,

'It's taller than we are,"

"If I can do it, so can you," John picked his bags up, smiling broadly,

"I'll get the engine started," Scout said, turning around and John chuckled,  
"I'll help," The two of them left the side of the boat, and disappeared into the belly of the craft and the other three just kept standing on the docks,

"Is this a sign?" Sally finally asked,

"Don't believe in them" Sherlock replied, slightly shocked and incredibly turned on by John's behaviour. He liked soldier John,

'Depends on what kind of a sign this is," Lestrade asked, as the boat's engine turned over and it bobbed a bit more in the water. There was a burst of laughter from inside as the engine revved. For a drill sergeant, he was getting along awfully well with John, supposedly his subordinate,

"This is a sign that means we are in for it," Sally said, "and the only one who will come out of this one in one piece is going to be John," as if his name brought him forward, John moved to the edge of the boat and looked down at them, and their jaws hit the ground.

In the time they had been standing there, he had changed. And was in uniform, the khaki lighting up his already glowing eyes, complete with beret on head and gun in his thigh holster, 'Are you coming or not?" he asked, before turning and climbing the stairs up to the bridge with easy steps,

"Well," Sherlock swallowed and walked forward, throwing his bags over the rails, 'it's all or nothing," he said, before hauling himself up, waiting before being joined by the others, as the anchor lifted, and the boat moved away from the dock.

* * *

The boat cut across the open waters of the Atlantic with ease, the bow tearing the blue ocean apart, as the sun lit the sky, reflecting off the waters, and as the clouds scattered for the first time in days. Sherlock, Sally and Greg were still in the hold, acquainting themselves with their new transport craft, and John was with Scout, both of them occupying the two chairs on the bridge, of the captain and the executive officer.

'That's beautiful," John said, shifting slightly. It felt so incredibly strange to be wearing the uniform, and, this time, to be wearing the uniform with Sherlock by his side. It was a comforting thought,

'It is," said Scout, the young man observing his senior, "Sir?" he asked and John turned his head, his eyebrows rising in surprise,

'Sir?" he repeated, amusement in his tone as he realised just how young the man next to him was. Scout looked straight ahead, 'I can't order you around," he said, speaking to the ocean, more than John,

"Why not?" John asked, keeping him voice neutral, 'you'll be the one training me," he added, more as a prompt than because he needed to state the obvious.

'But you've…you've served," he said, turning back to John, 'You've fought and lived to tell the tale, you've saved people's lives" there was a new light in his eyes and John recognised it – it was the light of someone who wanted the supposed glory that came with the fight. They wanted the experience, and they wanted the tales to tell,

'I haven't always been able to save lives," John said quietly, looking away from Scout, as his eyes grew curious. There was silence for a while and Scout was about to change the subject when John continued. He didn't know why he felt the need to do so. He hadn't even spoken to Sherlock about this yet, "I've taken more lives than I've saved," he added softly. He turned to face Scout, "And I suffer, nearly every night," _every night if Sherlock's not there,_ he paused, waiting for the words to sink in, 'for what I have done,"

Silence fell again, and John sighed. This was far too depressing for such a beautiful view,

"How did you get the drill sergeant position?" John asked, rather than going the direct route and asking how old he was. Scout blushed slightly,

"I aced all my written tests, and my physical training. They were going to deploy me to Iraq," he looked at John this time, "Then they realised someone like me could easily control a group of new recruits, unable to even handle a gun," He grinned, "It's a nice feeling when you see them, on graduation day," he said and John chuckled,

"Yeah," he smiled at Scout, "Does this mean you're going to order the others around?" he asked and Scout chuckled,

"Yes sir," he said, and John laughed, putting his feet up, the regulation army boots blacker than the night they had just woken up from.

* * *

When Scout and John left the boat on autopilot, fifteen minutes later, their course already selected for them, and went into the hold, they found the DI and Sally locked in a game of what looked to be hold 'em poker and Sherlock with a panel of the wall missing, staring at the wires inside,

"Ten hut!" Scout called and the DI and Sally jumped to their feet, whereas Sherlock stayed exactly where he was. Scout walked in, his iron face on,

'Holmes!" he yelled and Sherlock turned, an insolent expression on his face, 'didn't you hear the order?" Scout asked, as behind, John fought to hide the smile that was growing,

'What order?" Sherlock asked and was greatly surprised when Scout dragged him to his feet,

'When a senior officer walks onto the deck, you get to your feet," he said, the ice blue eyes boring into Sherlock's, 'is that clear?" From behind him, he heard Sally and Lestrade's chuckles and rounded on them, dropping Sherlock like a sack of potatoes,  
"You think this is funny?" he asked, not yelling, keeping his voice at the perfect tone. The smiles disappeared completely and John found a new respect for the man. He was bloody terrifying if you didn't know him,

'No," Lestrade said, trying not to look into those eyes and failing quite miserably. Scout walked away from them and to John's side,

"You're a lazy bunch of operatives," he said, looking at them, but not addressing John, "and I _will_ make SIS agents of you yet," he said, holding each of their gazes, Sally and Greg's shocked, Sherlock's irritated and insolent.

The corner of his mouth turned up as the boat changed route just a bit, and silence filled the air, "I'm sure the there of you won't mind cleaning the bathrooms," He added, nodding towards the closed door to their right,

'What about John?" Greg asked and Scout raised both his eyebrows.

"John?" he asked, glancing back at the doctor, who looked rather amused by the whole situation. The expression disappeared as the sergeant's gaze fell on him, before flicking back to the others,

"You will address the major as his title," he said, "He is your senior, and will be treated as such. Now, MOVE!" All three of them got to their feet and hurried to the bathroom,

"With me, major," he said, and left the room. As soon as he was on decks, the others turned to face John, who looked at them with trepidation,

'What happened to 'we're all equals?'" Sally asked, and John shook his head, not knowing what to say. Sherlock leant against the door and stared at his lover.

Far from being irritated at this turn of events, he was overjoyed. There were so many different ways he could annoy their new commanding officer, and he just couldn't wait to get started. His gaze flicked to the panel in the wall and John followed it,

"Sherlock," he warned, knowing that Sherlock was going to find a way to delay their assignment as much as possible, and the detective chuckled,

"Don't worry, Major," he said, 'we'll cooperate," Lestrade and Sally gaped at him, "Run along now," Sherlock said, crossing his arms, his long, lean frame stretching out as he crossed one leg over the other, 'We'll be the _perfect_ recruits," John shook his head and turned around and Greg and Sally rounded on Sherlock.

Climbing the stairs, the voices of his companions floating up to him, John stopped on the decks and stared at the water. As the wind washed over John, and the smell of the sea reached him, John knew that Scout was in for a rough ride – and he was not choosing sides on this one. He grinned. Finally, a war in which he had a damn choice. Concealing the spreading grin and the freedom that ran through his blood and sang in his ears, John took the steps upwards two at a time.

* * *

When Sherlock decides he's going to do something, he certainly does. :D

Ah, yes…

Aza

xoxo


	7. Boats

Hello! I might keep the one week gap before updating from now on because of school...bugger.

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Lestrade stared at the toothbrush as if its very being was the reason for their current punishment, "He wants us to clean the bathroom with this?" he asked, turning around to face the others. Sherlock was leaning against the wall, smirking and watching the DI with amusement.

"What are you so happy for?" Sally snapped at Sherlock, taking in his expression as she, too, picked up a toothbrush. Sherlock sighed and stood properly,

"You're going to take this lying down?" he asked,

'Would you prefer we take it standing up?" Lestrade winced as he lowered himself to the floor. It was immaculately clean, but he knew that the drill sergeant would somehow manage to find something wrong with it if they didn't do what he asked. With a sigh Sally joined him too, shooting a murderous glance at Sherlock,

'Get down here," she ordered and Sherlock grinned,

"I'll have you know I'm not really into that sort of thing…and anyway, I've got John," Sherlock replied and Lestrade feigned puking,

'Oh how mature," Sally muttered as Sherlock grinned again. He had discovered innuendo only recently and he loved it.

"We can do something about our current situation, you know," Sherlock said trying to keep the obvious disdain out of his voice,

'Oh yeah?" Lestrade grunted, 'what?" The DI looked up at Sherlock who stood straight and walked towards him, pulling both the DI and the sergeant up off the floor, "You'll need your legs for this," Sherlock said, a smirk slowly spreading across his face.

* * *

Up on the bridge, Scout, sprawled across his chair spun to look at John, still grinning, as he entered the command centre,

"Why are you so happy?" Scout asked and John's grin grew wider,

'I don't quite know," the doctor answered, which was a half truth,

'What does Holmes have planned?" for a second John stared at Scout before he realized that 'Holmes' was Sherlock. He frowned slightly. Use of surnames was going to take some getting used to, I don't know," John said, the slight frown disappearing as he took up his position next to Scout. The Sergeant swivelled so that he was looked out across the water and looked at John out of the corner of his eye, observing how relaxed John was, spread out across the seat, his eyes glinting as the light reflected off the controls in front of him. Feeling a gaze on him, John turned to face the young man and Scout felt his cheeks colour slightly, caught out staring,

"What?" John asked, good-humouredly

'Nothing…" Scout faded off, staring at the water. John was about to drop his gaze when the young man met his eyes again, "How did you know you were in love with Sherlock?" Scout asked, the words tumbling out in a rush, and his cheeks flaming even redder than they had originally been. John raised his eyebrows infinitesimally.

"How did I know?" John asked, looking at the sergeant,

"Yeah…how did you…tell him?" Scout finished, hesitantly, getting slightly more comfortable because John made no move to leave or hit him.

"I didn't," John said, realising for the first time that it was true. He never told Sherlock he felt anything for him before their relationship started. Afterwards it was all he could do to not repeat it every single time he saw Sherlock…but never before their relationship did he ever say anything to Sherlock,

'You didn't?" Scout looked at the doctor and John shrugged,

"No, I didn't," John smiled, "With Sherlock…it's like you're-" but he didn't get to finish. Out of the corner of his eyes he caught something on the horizon and so did the radar, which, despite being there only because it was on the boat rather than actually being needed for this mission, was turned on just in case. Scout turned to look at the radar and the incredibly fast moving craft that was coming towards them,

'Holy shit," He muttered, grabbing the radio,

'Unidentified vessel on my starboard side, this is a Royal Naval vessel, slow down and change your course," He said, as the shape grew larger in the distance. John could feel the adrenaline starting to pump through his body,

"It's not turning," John whispered, not meaning for everything to come out so quiet, but not able to help it either. Scout repeated his earlier order, speaking a little more clearly, but it didn't work. The boat, _bloody hell, that's huge,_ John thought, noticing that it would probably tower over their craft, was still coming towards them, the wind behind it, pushing it to its limits.

"Major," the sergeant looked at John who managed a small grin,

"How good are you are driving a boat?" John asked and Scout's eyes widened,

"Not very," He replied, his voice about an octave higher than it usually was. John looked at him for a second and then glanced back up at the boat coming straight at them.

Coming to a quick decision, he jerked his thumb backwards and Scout took a step in his direction as John slid into the Pilot's seat. He looked down at the controls as the radar's beeping got louder and the yacht approached at a quicker pace, it's motor no doubt super powerful, and John was suer he could see missile launchers on the side of the pristine white vessel. He didn't want to think about what those could do to their little boat. _Now,_ John thought, _It can't be much harder than driving a car, right?_

* * *

In the hold of their relatively small vessel, Lestrade and Sally were huddled around Sherlock, who was holding a green wire out from the panel in the wall,

"I have been studying this for a while and I have come to the conclusion cutting this will take us around in circles,"

"Won't that be a little dangerous?" Lestrade asked and Sherlock looked at him,

"Don't ask stupid questions," He said and Lestrade sighed, about to just give up and go back to scrubbing the floors when Sherlock actually answered his question, "It won't be dangerous," he said, staring at the panel, his brilliant mind analysing and categorising, slotting the wires together without needing to see the whole outlay of the boat.

'Sherlock," There was doubt in Sally's voice and the detective sighed,

"Do you really want to clean those floors?" he asked and Sally shook her head,

"Right then, hold on tight" Lestrade and Sally latched themselves to the nearest heavy object as, without further ado, Sherlock cut the wire and couldn't stop the grin from spreading. He couldn't wait to see Scout's face.

* * *

John was about to take the ship off autopilot when several lights lit up as suddenly they tilted to the right. Caught completely off guard, both soldiers, John falling from his chair and Scout loosing his balance, were thrown to the right as the boat took a vicious left turn. John smashed into the side and Scout fell straight on top of him. Groaning, the doctor got to his feet blinking, and shaking his now throbbing head

'What the hell did you do?" Scout yelled as the boat took another violent turn and the boat that had been heading straight for them appeared in their vision from the wide windscreen. It had changed its course with their turn and was still heading for them,

"Goddamn," John muttered, grabbing the control panel, and wincing at the iron grip Scout landed on his arm as the boat did a wild three sixty, 'It's following us." The doctor said, turning to look into slightly worried blue eyes,

"This was not part of the mission," Scout replied and John swallowed, as the boat straightened again. The radar was still beeping and it was getting louder as the unknown craft chased them.

Taking the risk that he would be thrown again, John launched himself forward and grabbed the steering wheel, flicking it off autopilot, and locking himself into the pilot's seat by securing the heavy-duty seat belt around him.

Immediately, the boat stopped its crazy progress in the waters, and John hit the pedals in front of him, turning the throttle up as far as it would go. The engine growled beneath them, and John spun the wheel, sending spray in every direction. The boat's propellers caught and it took off like a bat out of hell.

* * *

Below the decks, Lestrade and Sally were in peals of laughter, unable to believe that Sherlock just sabotaged their craft and Sherlock was basking in the glow of a bad deed accomplished. They were completely oblivious to the threat that was following them, and as John spun them around, they just thought the sudden speed and extra power was a reaction of their shenanigans. How wrong they were.

* * *

John gritted his teeth as the beeping on the radar grew louder and Scout cursed,

"Shall I go and tell them what's going on?" he asked, pointing below,

'No," John took a sharp left and the craft copied. He bit his lip as a thought occurred to him,

'Scout," He grunted as the wheel battled for dominance, the bow of the high-tech boat tearing the water up beneath them,

"Yeah, John?" the young man asked,

'Do you know the General Foley move?" John asked. The younger man's eyes widened in surprise as he nodded. Who didn't know the General Foley move?

'We're going to use it," John glanced at Scout when he didn't move at all, "What are you sitting there for?" he asked and felt his breath catch as the lights flashed in warning, a missile locked onto them. He jerked the wheel right, did a wide ninety degrees turn as he slowed the boat before gunning the engines, and having it actually grab the seat with one hand to keep from losing the wheel with his other, "Get the fireworks," He ordered and Scout hurried to do his bidding. John shook his head _Just when things were going so well,_ He thought, _fate throws something else our way._ John chuckled to himself as the ocean spread out wide ahead of them, the sunlight glinting off the water, their boats shadow darkening the water and sending the schools of fish swimming for their life. At least they weren't going to run out of space to run away in.

* * *

I just got back from survival camp. There isn't a muscle in my body that doesn't ache. Forgive me any mistakes, the shortness and slight OOC-ness with Sherlock and his little team. :D

Do you like the way things are going? I'm not entirely sure about everything.

Now, to bed before I collapse on my chair and then the floor.

Aza

xoxo


	8. Surprise!

'Ello!

Oh my gosh, thankyou all for reading, and favourite-ing and making me feel super special! Love you all!

So here we have a super fast update!

* * *

**Chapter 8**

"Wait!" John called, as Scout was about to leave the bridge,

'What?" the blue eyes fixed onto John's back as he managed to turn the steering wheel again,

'Tell them,' John had to cut himself off because of the strain of trying to turn their boat at their current speed,

'Tell who?" Scout asked, wondering whether John was cracking under strain before dismissing that thought as quickly as it occurred,

'Sherlock and the others," The last word was a grunt as, for the second time, the place lit up and another missile locked onto them,

"What do I tell them?"

'That we're under attack and need them up here," John said, his eyes fixed on the water ahead as he lost the lock; the annoyance and pure frustration in his voice all too clear. Without any other words, Scout nodded and left the bridge.

* * *

"You-deserve-an-award!" Lestrade chocked out, recovering from the laughter, as he heard the shouting above them. Sally nodded her agreement,

'You do," She added and Sherlock grinned. But as footsteps approached them, he sensed that something wasn't quite right. Scout appeared, his perfectly made hair ruffled, and a bruise forming on his neck. For a second, Sherlock wondered what he and John had been doing up there when She also noticed the tear in the previously immaculate uniform,

"What's going on?" Sherlock asked and Scout took in their faces, realising that they were responsible for the loss of control. He shoved it to the back of his mind for later reprimand,

'We're being pursued, we need your help upstairs," Even as he explained the situation to them, the boat turned again, throwing all of them, except Sherlock, against the far near the bathroom. Scout picked himself up as Sherlock got to his feet,

"Is John driving?" Sherlock asked and Scout nodded,

"We need your help," He said again, helping Lestrade to his feet. All laughter had disappeared as the seriousness of their situation hit home,

"What do we need?" Sally asked,

"Fireworks," Scout said, and without saying anything else, he led them out. Even Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what they were about to do.

* * *

On the bridge John was displaying his army pedigree as he managed to mutter every curse he could possibly think of and direct it towards the boat that was somehow gaining on them, despite the _Bloodgold_ being the lighter and faster vessel. "Bloody wankers," John muttered as another missile lock focused on them. If these people were so damn eager to blow them out of the water, John thought, they could at least have the decency to do it a bit more personally.

"Who's a wanker?" Lestrade asked walking in with a box full of fireworks, closely followed by the others, Sherlock carrying the least because he deemed it fit.

"You don't want to know," Sherlock purred, almost absentmindedly – a state that no one had ever seen him in before today – he was completely transfixed by the sight of John, standing at the controls, legs spread apart. He had abandoned the seat because it was far too hard to drive while sitting. John allowed his eyes to meet Sherlock's slightly dazed ones and wondered why on earth Sherlock looked like he had been hit.

"Are you okay, Sherlock?" John asked, oblivious to the fact that his very presence was debilitating to the detective. _This is turning into an unhealthy obsession, _Sherlock thought, finally managing to look at what the others were doing, as he ignored John's question. Sally was staring at Scout as he tied the fireworks in bundles, "Why exactly are there fireworks on this boat?" she asked, as John deployed the torpedo decoys. "Why,' John grunted as he spun them again, as a spray of water exploded into the air, the torpedoes hitting each other with a colossal boom, the shockwaves resonating through the hull, momentarily sending the radar into overdrive before asserting itself. While Sally and Lestrade jumped, the other three men barely flinched and John finished his sentence, ignoring Sally, "Is this boat only equipped for defence?" John glanced back at Scout, "Are you almost ready?" John asked,

'Yep," The young sergeant replied.

Sally decided that she would not be ignored, "Why are there fireworks on this boat?" she repeated and, much to her surprise, Sherlock answered. "This was part of the launch flotilla for New Year's Eve," He said. John actually turned to look at him,

"How the hell do you know that?" the doctor asked,

'You were on your army website, and this was a random piece of trivia on the screen. I read it,"

'And memorised it?" Lestrade asked,

'Yeah," Sherlock said, as if it were complete normal,

'What are you planning to do with this...these fireworks?" Lestrade asked,

"We're using the General Foley Move," Scout said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. He received three blank stares in return for his trouble,

'How can you not-" He didn't get to finish because John, using all his body strength, turned the boat in the nick of time. They felt the force from the passing torpedo as it cut through the water a few millimetres from their hull. John gritted his teeth as he brought the spinning boat to a standstill. For a second, there was nothing but their panicked breaths, before John gunned the engine as they were off again.

Scout was standing at the door, open mouthed, staring at the major, the firework bundle hanging loosely in his hand. John had just pulled of a trick that most professional speed-boat drivers couldn't do. At least, not without causing the destruction of their craft and whatever surrounding items are in and around it. "Stop gaping and start moving" John barked, noticing that everyone had fallen too silent to be getting any work done. Snapped out of their separate reveries, Lestrade and Sally followed Scout out onto deck, but Sherlock stayed behind, staring at John. The uncanny military sense John had developed alerted him to the fact that there was still someone behind him. Risking a glance behind him, John turned to see Sherlock's grey eyes fixed onto his. And as always, he felt the swooping in the lower half of his stomach. Cursing his body for acting like a hormonal teenager's, he turned back to the water, trying to calm his breathing, and focus on Scout, who was getting Lestrade and Sally to tie the fireworks to the bow of the boat, the spray whipping up into their faces.

Suddenly, two arms were around John's waist, causing the major to turn the boat so violently Scout was almost thrown overboard, saved only by Sally and Lestrade's quick reflexes. Thank god they couldn't see the bridge or his burning cheeks from their position.

"Sherlock!" John finally managed, ignoring the incredibly warm body that was pressed flush into him and the distractingly soft lips that were currently barely brushing against his neck,

'Yes John?" Sherlock asked, somehow managing to sound like they were talking about the weather.

"If you don't get off me right now," John had to leave the sentence unfinished as he suddenly noticed how close the other boat was. Blaming every higher power he could think of, the doctor hit the pedals, which, thanks to Sherlock he had eased off on.

Out the front, there were yells as they were thrown off balance, and John felt a little tension ease as they left the other boat behind, speeding ahead. Of course…there was still the problem of his own personal teddy bear, which had a very un-teddy bear like agenda planned,

"I believe you have a threat to finish, Major," Sherlock rumbled, his voice velvet to John's ears. The army medic knew if he kept this up, consequences be damned, he'd take Sherlock right there and then. So what it they get blown to pieces? It was Sherlock's fault anyway.

"If you don't get off me, _right now,_ Sherlock, there'll be nothing left for you to have any fun with by the end of this trip," John finished in a carefully measured tone. Sherlock considered for a moment. John could go through with his threat, but then again…maybe he wouldn't… The major's entire body tensed underneath Sherlock as he changed gears, flicking several switches that Sherlock couldn't care less about, and reaching up, pulling the radio down but leaving it off. "I'm serious, Sherlock," regretting it, Sherlock stepped back, but still stayed close enough to feel John's warmth. It was all John could've hoped for.

* * *

From the bow, Scout waved back at John and the Major thumbed up. He turned the radio on and Sherlock took the captain's seat, watching John. The doctor licked his lips (Much to Sherlock's enjoyment) and spoke, using a voice he hadn't used since his return home, 'To the boat that seems incapable of understanding that we don't want to be chased," as he spoke, Scout, Lestrade and Sally walked back onto the bridge, soaking wet, and breathing hard, "We are surrendering, peacefully," Lestrade and Sally turned to question Scout, when they noticed the timer in his hand and shut up. As they stood there, in tense silence, John slowed the boat, and turned the beeping radar off.

Sherlock watched as John turned to face Scout, "Is it set?"

"It'll blow the minute another boat gets within a hundred metres,"

"What have we just set up?" Sally asked, leaning against the arm of Sherlock's chair,

"The General Foley move," John, glanced up to make sure that the radio was switched off, "Pretend to surrender, wait for the last moment, then take your enemy by surprise. Hopefully, they haven't seen the fireworks we set up there on the front," a mischievous grin broke out a John's face and Sally had to admit the effect it had on her, someone who was in no way attracted to the Major, was quite exhilarating. Behind her, she felt Sherlock shift ever so subtly and a little mini celebration erupted in her mind. She didn't hate Sherlock any more, but it was always funny watching the genius detective squirm. Lestrade felt a little punch drunk. Within forty-eight hours, he had turned from boring old married DI into a widower SIS agent-in-training being hunted by God knows who somewhere in the Atlantic. He sighed and put some of his weight on the now quite control panel as their pursuers closed the gap between them. He watched as both Scout and John watched with eagle's eyes as it approached. "Three hundred metres" John muttered under his breath. There was an air of anticipation on the still bridge.

A sea gull swooped the water in front of them, plucking a fish out of the water, it shadow being thrown over the boat before it disappeared again, 'Two hundred metres," Scout said, a slightly excited tone to his otherwise neutral or commanding voice.

The craft in front of them was cutting through the water as easily as a hot knife through butter, and as it got closer, the words _True gem _caught the light and recognition stirred in John' memory…but it couldn't be… "Fifty metres from target" Sherlock said, as keyed up as they were, while John's mind whirred frantically. _Oh shit, _he thought, _True Gem's a government ship…it's one of ours! Which means…_ He didn't get to finish his thoughts. An ear shattering bang rang through the air as Scout pressed the trigger. John clamped his hand over his ear as the fireworks took off, so carefully placed that they didn't even singe the _Blood Gold_. Sherlock, Lestrade, Sally and Scout watched in glee and John with growing horror as the thirty fireworks plunged into the bow of the _True Gem_.

Within seconds, the entire thing had stopped moving and was a flaming mess. Scout cheered and pulled Lestrade into a one armed hug, while he clapped John on the back. Sherlock just watched the flames and Sally hugged Jon,

'We got rid of them!" she said, her eyes glowing, but John turned to face her solemnly,

"I don't think so," he said, pointing to the upper deck. A man was shouting and waving at them, and as John carefully gunned the engine to bring them less that ten metres from the burning craft Lestrade let out a groan, for there, waving frantically, his suit smoking, was Director Francis Stone, the very man who sent them on this half-cocked mission.

* * *

I understand I might have made Sherlock into a sex-crazed hatter. To all those who fell asleep, Sorry! But I just survived P.E aerobics. Leave me alone. :) Kidding. Please don't leave me alone...see? this is what being an only child does to you...

:D

Aza

xoxo


	9. Feelings

**Do me a favour. Just stay calm okay?

* * *

**

**Chapter 9**

"Well now isn't this a sight?" Lestrade asked, laughing as Stone collapsed onto the deck as John started the engine again, taking them away from the sinking Government boat. Stone glared at the DI as the boat cut through the water.

Five minutes earlier, they had thrown a rope up to Stone, who tied it to the burning craft and shimmied and slid his way over to their vessel, landing like a sack of potatoes on the deck, before being unceremoniously dragged up to the bridge, where an amused doctor stood, watching Stone through cold eyes.

John slowed the craft down and shut the engine off, getting inkling that if he put it on autopilot it would continue with its wild course that he believed was related to the open panel in the hold that was below them. John turned around to face Stone to see that he hadn't moved off the floor, and the others hadn't bothered to help the still smoking man up. John sighed and felt a little irritated at his infallible conscience. He moved forward and offered his hand to the man,

'Would you like a seat?" John asked, the usual warmth his voice held barely there. Stone looked at the hand before taking it.

The early morning sun shone brightly off the water as the sky turned from pink into blue and _Blood gold _bobbed up and down in the calm waters. Below the depths, marine life was waking, as the sun penetrated the watery depths, slowly lighting the ocean floor below. Up above the water, Stone took John's hand and settled himself into the seat. The others moved so that they were standing around Stone, sending of more than an unwelcoming vibe,

'What were you doing out here?" Scout asked, his voice the epitome of calm but his blue eyes burning so brightly Sally was amazed that the director wasn't on fire for the second time,

"I was planning on checking up on you," Stone said, his tone sullen as he looked from one face to another, 'What I was not suspecting was sabotage," John exchanged a glance with Sherlock who gave a tiny, imperceptible nod, _'listen,'_ it seemed to say, so John settled back folding his arms across his chest, the uniform sticking to his form. He moved uncomfortably. He had been so much skinnier when he had come back home. Now the uniform was incredibly tight and it irked him He pushed thoughts of clothes to the back of his mind and focused on the director.

'Speak," Lestrade said and Stone sighed, not entirely sure why he was taking orders from people who were so far below him on the hierarchy it was like the prince and the pauper, but nonetheless, he started his story,

"I was going to follow you, and watch your mission," he said, and Scout's eyes darkened,

'Why the hell did you need to do that?" he asked the anger pretty apparent,

"Because," Stone tried to maintain as least _some_ dignity. It was bad enough that he had got one of the most expensive boats in the SIS sunk, now he was being told off by someone who could be his son. "The home secretary asked me to," he said. Sally had to remind herself that she was a composed officer of the law and screaming and jumping around like an eleven year old girl would do nothing for her image.

Meanwhile, the words shocked Lestrade out of the fog that he had been in, moving on autopilot while his mind still seethed with thoughts of his wife. He focused all of his attention on the director now, knowing that this was news indeed.

Sherlock was as still as ever. He had a feeling Mycroft had interfered again. Damn the man. Could he never leave him alone? For the love of god he was a grown man and Mycroft _still_ insisted on treating him like they were twelve and as if Sherlock couldn't make his own decisions.

John showed his surprise by raising an eyebrow. He looked at Stone curiously, "Really?" he asked,

"Yes really," Stone snapped, his brow furrowing. John hurriedly held his hands up in surrender,

"Just asking," the doctor cocked his head to the side, 'Go on, then," he prompted. Stone heaved a sighed before picking up his story,

"Well, I was doing as I was asked, when I got a call. Thinking it was the secretary again, I answered without looking at the caller id. I asked who it was and received no answer. Then, before I could do anything, the boat went out of control. I dropped the phone and tried to get it back in control, but it just continued without my help,

"Sounds like what happened to us," Scout said and John laughed,

"No, I know what happened to us," the doctor glanced at Sherlock who met his gaze. John looked away, his heart hammering against his rib cage. Looking at Sherlock was definitely not a good idea. Too distracting.

Focusing back on the conversation, John listened in growing worry, "The wheel turned on it's own, but it wasn't random. It had a destination, and as I tried to warn you that I was approaching at a breakneck speed, communication shut down,"

"Which is why you didn't reply to our attempts at communication," John said, piecing everything together in his mind.

"Exactly,' Stone grimaced,

"I watched as you got closer, saw, as you loaded the fireworks," he shook his head at that, staring at Sherlock suspiciously, "and whenever you tried to outrun us, the boats hidden attack features came into play." He looked up at all them, from John to Scout, Lestrade to Sally and finally settled on Sherlock, "It wasn't my intention to do that to you,"

"What was controlling the boat?" Lestrade asked, 'It's not exactly a toy. You'd need a ridiculously powerful signal,"

"They can get that," John said, nodding slowly, and he looked at Sherlock, who took over,

"All they'd need was something to transfer the signal," Sally and Lestrade came to the same conclusion at the same time,

'The mobile," the chorused and John nodded solemnly.

'But…" Scout glanced at John before looking back at Stone, "Why didn't you just shut the phone off?" he asked. Stone's face flushed with embarrassment as he realized his rookie mistake.

'Because he didn't know," Sherlock answered cheekily, looking irresistibly like a kid in a candy shop. John watched with amusement as Stone turned an even deeper shade of red and Lestrade's deep laugh echoed around the room. John was glad to hear it, and caught the DI's eye. He grinned wide, the mask he put up for Stone's benefit dissolving, and Lestrade's heart skipped a beat. Must be excitement of today.

"I did know," Stone muttered angrily and John laughed,

"Sure," he said, as Scout walked around the chair to stand next to John, 'We'd better had back to land," he said, "This mission will have to wait," he turned the engine on and John felt the vibrations of the engine travel up his body and found he was going to miss that feeling, and the power that came with driving the boat as the advanced craft glided over the water.

"Now we know how the boat was sabotaged," Sally said, taking the co-captains seat, "we need to figure out who sabotaged it," as she continued talking, Lestrade turned around and slipped out of the room, unnoticed by the others. The wind whipped around him as the boat gathered speed and he walked down the flight of stairs leading to the lower deck, the water slipping away underneath them, the blue changing colour as the depth changed.

Sighing as the salty spray hit him, he closed his eye, gripping the railing, breathing in the fresh sea air. He didn't want to think about _why_ his heart skipped when John smiled. He opened his eyes. Suddenly, he found that he didn't want to think any more. Thinking brought memories of Julianne. Thinking brought thoughts about how they had wanted to start a family. Thinking meant that he would never get past this.

The sun hit him full on as the boat smoothly changed course and he squinted, relishing the warmth that the sun brought, the sky clear above him. He watched as seagulls swooped in and out of the sun, their forms mere shadows against the sun. "I have to stop thinking," he muttered to himself, watching the birds, "I have to stop,"

He stayed where he was as the birds continued on their erratic journey across the skies.

* * *

They were an hour away from land, when something that turned everything on its head happened. Everyone was on the bridge, except Lestrade and John. Lestrade had told the other he wanted some sleep, and they let him go. John had decided he wanted some fresh air. The doctor climbed down to the deck, his solid boots thudding on the polished boards. He shifted around uncomfortably again as he noted how ridiculously tight this shirt was – especially across his back. Shaking his head at the way the military could be so precise about landings on far off shores, and yet couldn't get the right measurements for their soldier's clothes. He almost laughed at the thought as he continued on down to the back of the boat.

Like Lestrade had done not long before, John grasped the rail and stared out at the water, watching the white swirls that the powerful propellers were creating in the water below them. He stretched his muscles and moaned a little at the feeling it gave him.

Unknown to the doctor, Lestrade had given up on getting any sleep and had come up on the decks – to catch sight of the major, his too tight clothes stretched around an alluring figure.

Lestrade felt his belly drop and his eyes widen as he watched the doctor stretching, those hands, hands that had operated on countless people and hands that were no doubt as soft to the touch as a baby's bottom, clasping the rail tightly, highlighting the well-defined muscles in the doctor's arms. The sun seemed to form a ring around the major. It was behind them as they travelled and Lestrade knew it would take something equivalent to Hiroshima to make him move now. He watched as John's lips parted slightly, as he stretched backwards. Watched as his eyelids fluttered closed, hiding away the brown eyes he loved _wait…loved? _

This thought wrenched Lestrade from his thoughts and brought him back to reality. Back to the fact that his breathing was erratic. Back to the fact that he was feeling considerably light headed and back to the fact that his wife had died not even three days ago, and he was eyeing up another person. No wait – another _man._

Horrified, Lestrade turned and half fell, half sprinted his way back to their sleeping quarters. He sat on his bunk with trembling legs, his mind reeling. What was happening to him? What the hell was going on here? His head snapped up as a shout of laughter echoed from the decks and he was sure he heard Sherlock's baritone. Because John belonged to Sherlock and there was absolutely nothing that could separate them. More laughter reached his ears and he was sure John told Sherlock to 'bugger off, I'm stretching' there was silence followed by a groan that threatened to tip Lestrade over the edge of sanity that he was so carefully walking a tightrope on – without a safety net.

"That's exactly _why _I can't bugger off,' Sherlock's reply echoed down the stairwell, all too loud for Lestrade. He could take this anymore.

He ran to bathroom and emptied his insides into the toilet, retching as if it would somehow erase the feelings that took hold of his body and mind a minute ago. Shaking, trembling, Lestrade slumped against the floor. Too many emotions. Too many thoughts. His world was spinning, and there was nothing he could do about it. _Oh god_ he felt tears slide down his cheeks and he knew that there was no one here to comfort him and – dear _god, _he was going to hell for this – there was only one person he wanted comfort from. One major in particular.

Lestrade could feel consciousness slipping away from him and let it happen. He wished he could just disappear. Melt into the cracks in the tile and just vanish. At least then life would be easier.

* * *

Okay. Calm down. I just wanted some drama, and Lestrade was the perfect provider of such. :D

Right. Now. Who wants to kill me? Well, you can't. I stayed up until 2:45 am yesterday because of stupid school assignment. Therefore, I am too buggered to be killed any further. Oh, and if you kill me, there'll be no more story.

;P

Aza

xoxo


	10. Left, right, left, right, left

**Here we go. Let's have some fun!

* * *

**

**Chapter 10**

Waking up in a hospital always left the DI disconcerted, but as the white ceiling came into view, and the gentle, sloping light that fell from the huge window to his right washed over him, warming him gently, Greg decided that maybe hospitals weren't that bad to wake up in. He blinked as moved his head slowly, looking to see if anyone was in the room, and then realised that hospitals weren't this quiet. As more of his senses returned, he realised that while the room was white, it was carpeted and the window was shaped like the ones from his family cottage when he was growing up; low down and wide with flowers growing outside in a window box. He also realised that he was lying on a double bed, with nightstands on either side, which meant that he was in a house.

Sitting up slowly, Lestrade reached for the jug on the bedside table and poured himself a glass, noticing, as his arm came into view, that he was wearing pyjamas – soft cotton ones, with blue stripes. Smiling slightly, Lestrade drank, allowing the cool liquid to wash away a slightly bitter taste in his mouth and to wake him up completely.

Putting the glass down, Lestrade threw his covers back and looked himself over. No bandages, no pain…nothing...so why was he in bed in the middle of the afternoon, and where was everyone? As he thought, memories flashed through his head; blood, a hospital, standing at Sherlock and John's doorstep, sleep, a boat, Stone, and then…his heart almost stopped as he remembered _why_ he was here. Or rather, who had brought him here: John, the good army doctor, whose only crime was wearing clothing that was far too form fitting.

Shaking his head, Lestrade got to his feet and walked to the window. Opening it, he breathed in the scent of freshly mown grass and took in the sight in front of him. He was in a cottage, surrounded by a good amount of land, flowers blooming everywhere, and a gardener filing a bag with the grass he had just cut. However, that wasn't what caught Lestrade's attention. Standing out in stark contrast to the beautiful natural life that surrounded them, was a metal fence, enclosing what was obviously a military camp, spreading for almost three kilometres, as far as Lestrade could see from his easterly positioning, His mouth hung slightly agape as gunfire reached his years and a troop of around twenty men came marching into sight, well away from the fence that seemed a lot more solid that the usual mesh that was used.

Lestrade made his way back to the bed and considered it. He hadn't slept properly in a while…and it wasn't like he needed to go anywhere. Climbing back into it, the DI pulled the covers back over himself and allowed his mind to relax. To forget that he may or may not have a crush of _Sherlock's _John and forgetting that he was meant to be training at the moment and freeing himself of the heavy weight of loss that Julianne left in her wake. He just let himself be. As he was. No distractions.

* * *

John collapsed into the mud, joining Sherlock and Sally as Scout grinned wickedly from his position almost one hundred metres way from where they were. As soon as the team hit dry land, they went down to check on Lestrade and were greeted by the sight of the unconscious DI. John went into immediate doctor mode and checked all his vitals to find that they were normal – but the DI would not wake up, not even when Sherlock tipped a bucket of water on him and received a bruise on his arm from where John punched him for his apparent 'stupidity'. Sherlock was still fuming. He wasn't an idiot. Nine of ten times, cold water served to wake a person up, he adamantly told John. The doctor replied by saying that the other one out of ten times, the person can go into further shock. Sally couldn't contain a chuckle, and when John had turned back to Lestrade, straightening out his legs and laying a hand on his forehead to check his temperature, Sherlock aimed a good kick at Sally's shin. She could _still _feel the pain.

John stared at Scout as he began to walk towards them and wondered how Stone was coping back at HQ. The director had gone back there to see whether or not they could find out who had been controlling the boat and said he would drop by to give them the update. They had no idea where they were going, and he assured them that this time there would be absolutely no chance of anything going wrong. When they asked what would happen to Lestrade – who was being taken in another vehicle, identical in almost every way to the one they weer travelling in, Stone smiled and said it would be taken care off and he wouldn't be too far way from them.

John groaned as he moved his abused muscles to stand for their drill sergeant,

"That was rather pathetic," Scout said, coming to stand in front of them, any trace of a smile wiped off his face, "It was rubbish Do you hear me? I've seen twelve year old girls do better push ups than that," he stated, waiting for Sally to get to her feet and watched as Sherlock and John pulled her up,

'Yes," Sherlock muttered, in a rather sulky mood about how he hated army fatigue and he hated mud even more. Scout glared at him and John sighed. Sherlock _had_ to remember that respect was mandatory in the army,

"What was that?" Scout asked, deciding to give Sherlock a chance. The consulting detective was far too moody for that, "I said, yes," he repeated and the sergeant nodded,

"Right, three laps around the entire camp. You will use 'sir' when addressing a senior officer," he said and Sherlock groaned while Sally's mouth turned upwards. The sergeant, being far too sharp not to notice this, then added, "All of you," John almost turned around and smacked Sherlock right there and then when he realised that three laps around the entire camp meant almost 24 kilometres, as each side of the camp was exactly two kilometres in length. "Major, I'm sure you'd love to lead," Scout said, somehow managing to sound sweet despite the tone of his voice.

Ignoring the fact that they were the only ones still in training and everyone else was going in to lunch they started their run. The midday sun burned above them, hotter than they had previously experienced that entire day as John took the lead, Sally followed behind him and Sherlock pulled up behind the two of them. Scout followed in a jeep yelling orders out. As they went past the solid buildings, they gathered quite a crowd, mostly male, all yelling encouragement as Scout picked the pace up and John followed, his mind set on just completing the rounds. Blocking out all the sounds around him, John focused on every footfall and the squelch it made as it connected with the muddy ground. One after the other was him motto, as Scout continued to edge the pace up on their first lap.

Sally, completely unused to running so much was lagging behind John as she struggled to keep up with the major, who's rhythmical pace looked almost mechanical.

One lap passed.

It was halfway through the second lap that Sally had to stop, her lungs burning, her heart racing. John faltered and wanted to check on her, but a shout from Scout meant that he had to keep running. He glanced at Sherlock, who, like him, had stripped outer garments and was left only with his thin t-shirt and pants. The consulting detective looked tired, but had a glint in his eye that John had come to associate with chasing criminals down. With making sure that he was safe – with ensuring that he got everything he needed out of this relationship, even though he repeatedly told Sherlock that he was all the doctor needed.

Onwards they went for their third lap, already having run sixteen kilometres. This was beyond humane. This was madness, but not one person in the camp did anything about it, because this was how real soldiers were made. This is how they knew that they were ready for the hardships waiting for them out there.

The yells of encouragement grew louder as they went around the second side. One foot in front of the other. One more step. Another. Another.

Behind him, John could hear Sherlock's laboured breaths, and looked behind him, "Sherlock?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper,

"Hmm?" the detective replied, the pain evident in his voice,

'Are…you…alright?" John managed, knowing that asking was draining him of his own strength. Sherlock smiled slightly,

"Don't worry," he replied as Scout noticed they were talking,

'If you have the energy to talk, I'm sure you can do another lap, right?" John's head snapped around the front again, "didn't think so," the drill sergeant said, but he was smiling. He hadn't expected Sally to go as long as she had. Out of everyone, she was the least fit and therefore did exceedingly well for her first day. They all did.

Finally, mercifully, it was over. Sherlock and John, not for the first time today, let their legs go out from underneath them and flattened themselves on the ground, their legs trembling and their muscles screaming, attempting to get their breathing under control as the sun rode low on the western horizon, hours having passed since they started. They were hungry, and they were wet and cold and tired.

Scout looked at them with a blank expression as the freshly showered Sally joined them on the field. "Good work," Scout said and John looked up at him, wiping the sweat off his face,

'Thankyou,' he said, his breathing coming back down quickly. Sherlock was about to add something else when the gates there were sitting next to swung open wide, and a black car that they were beginning to find quite familiar drove in.

They watched in silence as it stopped and Stone stepped out, heading straight for them, as the commanding officer of Catterick training base, North Yorkshire, came out of his office from not far away. Stone stopped in front of them, towering over the consulting detective and the doctor. He wrinkled his nose in distaste as he took in their state,

"You're a mess," he said and John had to fight the urge to hit the man. Or tackle him. Either way. Sally rolled her eyes and addressed him,  
"So, what's the news?" she asked,

'Well," he looked a little uncomfortable, 'we know who hijacked the ship," he said and immediately, John's plans for revenge on the irritating man subsided – for now,

'What?" he asked,

"Well…" Stone glanced around as the officers of the boot camp approached them, curious as to who he was and how he got in, "How about I tell you inside?" he asked and Sherlock, John and Sally all exchanged a glance. Something big was going on here and if it involved the director himself then…well, they weren't about to miss out on all the fun.

* * *

Okay. The real case is starting now. Just thought I'd get some training done before all that though, it seemed like a good idea.

:D

Thankyou soooooo much for your support and for reading! Cookies to all my reviewers and hugs from Sherlock and John (and Jim just for a special someone)

Aza

xoxo


	11. Heroes exist

**There is absolutely, positively no offence meant by using Prince Harry's name in here, it is simply something I thought up, and I mean nothing by it. I have the utmost respect for him and England's Royal Family.**

* * *

**Chapter 11**

Catterick Base, North Yorkshire was known for producing some of the best soldiers in the world. It was known for being ruthless with its people and was very rarely in trouble for a lack of order. The base commander was four-star general Matthew Thornton, three wars, and several decades, and he wasn't any where near retirement. Being old, he always thought, as merely a good reason to get a seat on the bus, but it stopped him from doing nothing. As he shuffled his papers in a way that made it look like he was doing something, and his clerk sorted files in the office, the general spotted something out of his window. It's positioning was unique. It faced the entire compound, and gave him a brilliant view of everything that was happening in the main square of the training ground. Now, his attention was caught by the group that was making their way over to the hut that stood on the edge of the ground and contained nothing but old tables and chairs – though he was pretty sure that illegal games of poker occurred in there, but he had no proof and couldn't be bothered doing anything about it. He followed with his eyes the group that walked into it and watched as his protégée, Scout Trott, closed the door behind him. "I'll be back," The commander said, and the clerk snapped to attention. The general didn't salute back. He didn't even see the motion, as he was too preoccupied with what a civilian was doing in his camp.

* * *

The cabin was filled to the top with chairs and Sherlock briefly wondered what the results of pulling one chair out from the bottom of the pile would be, before pushing it to the back of his mind for 'trial' and focusing instead on the situation at hand. Stone grabbed a table from the corner of the room and pulled it into the middle, waiting, as the light that Scout flicked on grew brighter. Sally took the charts and folders from Stone, and, when the table was in the middle, she laid the A3 sized paper out. John grabbed one corner while Scout grabbed the other, and Sherlock and Sally made their way around to Stone's side to see better.

"So what's going on?" asked John, staring at the paper, which was, in fact, a map, in confusion. It wasn't charts of unknown jungle terrain and it wasn't the layout to a secret underground bunker. No, it was the map of London, blown up to be seen better.

"Well." Everyone fixed their attention on Stone and Sherlock noticed that his right hand was trembling ever so slightly, _nervous then,_ he thought, and had to bite back the smile. John wouldn't approve if the doctor knew what he was thinking. Sherlock let his gaze fall on John as Stone began,

"I went straight to HQ," he said, "and I started a search, found some satellite feed, and the boat has been identified,"

"You don't say?" John said dryly and Sally smiled while Scout remained stony-faced. He hated Stone with a vengeance and therefore, whenever he was in the man's company he needed to keep his mouth closed before he said something he'd regret. He quite liked his career.

Stone shot an annoyed look at John,"I do say," he continued, "and you're not going to like it,'

"Spit it out," Sherlock said, not taking his gaze away from John. The doctor glanced up and was trapped by the steel green-grey eyes that were staring at him, observing his every move. Swallowing, John looked down and focused on Tower bridge, as Stone sighed, "The boat belonged to millionaire Stewart Howell."

Silence fell on the room and even Sherlock stopped his observation of the way John licked his lips every 135 or 136 seconds to stare at the director. John, who had survived the Afghanistan war, and therefore was considerably more well equipped to handle bombshells was the first to recover from this, "You're mad," he stated, 'Stark-raving, I've-gone-around-the-bend mad," the doctor blinked at the director and Stone sighed, opening one of the manila folders that sat on the table, revealing a fact file about the billionaire,

"Howell's a great man," Sally said, recovering her voice, "He has developed half of our army technology! And is our greatest asset, not to mention the fact that he's given millions to charity and spends every Sunday on the streets of London," Sherlock took over,

"The man is a living saint, not to say I believe in such, but, metaphorically speaking," John rolled his eyes and turned to face Stone,

'You must be wrong,'

"Believe me, I wish I were," Stone grabbed a chair and plonked himself down on it, looking up at the four disbelieving faces staring at him. He was about to carry on, and try to convince them that this man was not what he wanted the world to believe he was, when the door opened,

"TEN HUT!" the command had John and Scout, purely by instinct, snapping to attention, and John groaned as he felt something twinge in his back. He was getting too old for this. Sally copied them, feeling a little foolish in her civilian clothes and Sherlock came to a sloppy salute as someone walked into the room, shutting the door behind him.

For a second, the General took in the state of the major and the cadet with ebony curls falling into his eyes and a cold glint in his eyes. His eyes swept over them to the young woman standing to the right of Sherlock, and his eyes finally rested on Scout, who looked as tired as everyone else, "At ease," the general watched as the major – doctor – the red cross on the arm became all too clear, underneath a layer of mud – slumped, leaning against the table,

'Sir?" Scout asked, looking at him, but the General wasn't listening as he was staring at the man sitting in the chair, dark circles around his astonished eyes.

'Matt?" Everyone's eyes swung to Stone, who slowly got to his feet, as if still not entirely sure of what he was seeing. The general tensed, he still didn't quite recognise the man in front of him. Maybe he should've stayed in his office, "Matty!" Stone exclaimed and John and to bit his tongue to stop the laughter form bubbling out. Stone had a friend?

"Francis?" the general's eyes widened in shock as realisation sunk in, with the use of a name no one had called him since his university days, and before either knew what they were doing, they were hugging and laughing and talking over each other and John, Sherlock, Sally and Scout had to wonder where was Stone and who was this replacement.

* * *

Lestrade woke to the dying rays of light casting a red glow over everything in the room, the entire sky, from his current position lit up with hues of red and pink. Lestrade sat up and rubbed his eyes, finding that he was feeling completely refreshed, the soft bed creaking slightly underneath him. Carefully, the DI pushed back the covers, and got to his feet, sliding out of the bed easily.

The floorboards cold on his feet, Lestrade walked to the door and opened it, providing him with a view of the hallway that contained a sideboard with a vase of roses in it. Smiling at these small comforts, Lestrade looked left and right. Left led to what he was sure was the bathroom and a second bedroom, and right led to what he could see was an open-plan living room. Deciding he didn't particularly need the bathroom just yet, Lestrade went right, and into the lounge, the carpet soft and clean underfoot. Despite the old design of the house, everything in here was modern and Lestrade glanced at the leather couches that looked oh so comfortable in the squishy shape they made. He walked into the kitchen, grimacing as he the cold tiles met his bare feet and took in the marble granite bench top and the stainless steel touch-control cook top with its range hood. He was obviously somewhere near an army base, and it was obviously an army house, but why the hell was it equipped with this many high-tech stuff? It was probably ridiculously expensive.

Eagerly, Lestrade opened the cupboards and found them packed with freshly bought food, judging by the stamp BAKED FRESH TODAY and today's date stamped on a box of triple-chocolate chip cookies. He glanced at the table calendar that was sitting on the kitchen top and found he was right. He reached up and brought the box down, removing himself one, and closing the cupboard again, leaving the cookies on the bench. He took a bite and found that the biscuit melted in his mouth, the chocolate smooth and creamy. He chuckled at the thought that John would probably kill him for these. Deciding he may as well explore the rest of the house, Lestrade set of with his cookie, heading back to see what was in the second bedroom, wondering what John would do if he told Sherlock about the doctor's secret love of chocolate cookies. It was amazing that John had kept it from Sherlock for this long, but he said that he wanted to have just one thing that Sherlock didn't know about him – just one. Lestrade wouldn't even have known if he hadn't seen John at a small café hidden away in the bustle of London, eating about twelve cookies – how the man still kept fit was a mystery to Lestrade who knew if he ate that much, he'd b in trouble.

Lestrade walked past his room and reached the other bedroom. He reached for the handle and opened it, his mouth dropping open in awe as he stared at what was obviously the master bedroom. The floor was carpeted, from wall to wall, in a luxuriously thick, scarlet carpet. A huge, king-sized bed sat in the middle of the huge room – it was deceivingly small when seen from only the door – and the bed was complete with hangings of the finest gauze, and a scarlet red canopy made of velvet. The rails that held the bed and canopy up were gold, and glinted red in the rays of light that the sun cast through the huge glass doors that opened up onto a balcony, still on ground level, but made from marble, as far as Lestrade could tell. Lestrade moved into the room and over to the doors, staring at the gorgeous garden that sat outside the window, with an arch covered in light pink and yellow roses over the entrance into the garden, which had a little path running around it. It was facing in the opposite direction to his room and the garden was blooming with life and colours. Lestrade turned around to face the bed and saw a plaque that was on the wall: OFFICIAL GUEST HOUSE OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE HENRY OF WALES.

Lestrade's heart almost stopped…this was the Prince's guesthouse? And now he had the great honour of being able to stay here? Suddenly, the DI decided he needed some fresh air. He still couldn't believe what he read and was feeling oddly light-headed about it all. Pulling the curtain's aside, Lestrade opened the door that led out onto the terrace and found a pair of slippers next to the door. Gratefully, he put them on and shut the door behind him. The air was cooling, but it was pleasant as the wind gently blew his dark, slightly greying hair, back. He walked into the garden and exclaimed in delight as he spotted a swing the Willow that was growing in the centre of the garden. Feeling like a child, and as if he were in some sort of incredibly pleasant dream, Lestrade walked to it, along the soft path, brushing against the long stalks of lavender, still eating his cookie, and he sat down, gently setting the swing into a rocking motion, taking in the glorious sunset in front of him, smiling as he felt a small piece of his turbulent soul settle into contentment.

* * *

Sherlock, Sally, John and Scout had been immediately dismissed as Stone and the General started talking and left, completely bewildered,

'What just happened?" Scout asked as breeze blew and John shivered in his wet clothes,

"Later," Sally said, before anyone could answer, 'Sherlock, John, take a shower now and change into dry clothes, you're not getting sick if I can help it," she said, "I refuse to go in alone because both of you are in bed," John and Sherlock exchanged a glance and Sally groaned while Scout coloured, as the doctor and his partner smiled, "_Different_ beds!" Sally shook her head as Sherlock and John laughed, "Go," she urged them, turning them around in the direction of the shower, 'and if you're not back in ten minutes, I don't care, I'm coming after you," Scout shot her a scandalised look as the other two made for the showers,

'What?" she asked,

'They actually listen to you," he said, and Sally chuckled, pulling her cloak a little tighter around herself, 'C'mon," she said, "Let's get inside," She nodded towards the private quarters that Sherlock, John and Lestrade, when he was called, would share. She had been put with the other women, and still hadn't met any of them, because they missed lunch and hadn't seen anyone yet.

* * *

Scout and Sally entered the private bunkhouse and Sally had to admire the positioning of the beds. They were in three different corners of the room, John's being on the bed under the window to her left, Lestrade's in the top left hand corner and Sherlock's in the right, directly across from the door. It's as if the army were trying to keep those two as far apart as possible, 'So," Scout took a seat at the centre table, which was round, and had a light hanging above it, a light which he switched on the to combat the creeping shadows as the sun disappeared,

"Yeah," Sally felt the awkwardness around them and sighed, "While we're waiting…you play rummy?"  
"Do you?" Scout's eyes lit up and Sally smiled,

"Course I do. Champion at my college,"

'Bring it on," Scout said, as Sally extracted a pack of cards from her pocket and Scout wondered what the hell they were doing in there in the first place.

* * *

Believing Sally's word, Sherlock and John finished their shower in just under ten minutes, John making sure that he took the one furthest from Sherlock, who pouted when he realised that every other shower between him and John was full and there was no way the doctor was going to let him in. By the time Sherlock was done, John was fully dressed, the green camouflage of the uniform standing out against the white tiles, his cheeks were pink and his hair was ruffled by the towel that was sitting on his shoulders as he waited for Sherlock. The detective had also opted for fatigues and was wearing them when he stepped out of the shower.

"Aww," he said, his voice quiet under the sounds of running water,

"What?" John asked, pretty sure that Sherlock was not calling him cute, as they walked towards the exit of the showers,

"I would much rather see that uniform somewhere else,"

"Oh yeah?" John asked, grinning slightly,

'I can show you, if you want," Sherlock said, seductively slowly and John was very glad that the cold air blasted them as they walked outside,

"No thanks, Sherlock," John said, looking straight ahead, "but I can imagine exactly what you're thinking," with that he led the way to their cabin, and he was pretty sure he heard Sherlock make a sound somewhere between a meow and a groan.

* * *

As they approached the cabin, laughter from inside reached their ears. They were pretty sure that it was from there, because their cabin was set just a little aside from the other ones, as if the army were worried they'd corrupt their officers. Oh second thoughts, though, it was Sherlock Holmes they were talking about. "What's that?" Sherlock asked,

'You act as if you've never heard laughter," John replied, climbing the few stairs and opening the door, to see Scout banging his fist on the table and throwing the cards down as Sally laughed, pushing her hair back, 'You really need some more practise," she said, "How many points is that now?"

"Oh shut up," Scout turned and flushed as he caught sight of the amused John and annoyed Sherlock – annoyed because John wouldn't let him go in,

"Oh, hello Major," Scout said and Sally turned,

"Oh good, I was about to come and get you," she said as John finally let Sherlock in, closing the door behind them,

"Really? You two looked like you were having fun," he said, and Sally laughed,

"Yeah, yeah, but that's not important. We've only got half an hour before dinner, and I'm starving,"

"Mmm, me to," John admitted, pulling up a chair and throwing his towel onto his bed while Sherlock collapsed onto his own bed, covering his eyes with his arm.

"So?" John asked,

'Well, I've been thinking,"

"Amazing," Sherlock quipped from the corner, ignored by everyone in the room,

"And it seems that Stone's got things mixed up," she said and both of the two soldiers nodded, "But what if he doesn't?"

'What do you mean?"

'I was reading the file as Stone did his little re-union thing with the General,"

"Really? I was too distracted by the fact that Stone had a friend" Scout guffawed and Sally frowned,

"Be nice, doctor," she said and John laughed,

"Moving on,"

'Yes. It said that Howell reportedly brings in a net income of around sixty million a year, yeah?"

"Yeah," both officers answered simultaneously, the figures published on the front cover of _Times _magazine,

"Well, the file says in his bank account there's over a billion dollars," The other two stared at her,

"So…" Scout looked at John, who picked up what he was trying to say,

"So, where's that money coming from?"

"It's very likely to be illegal," Sally said, grimacing,

"and all the donations…?" Scout asked,

'A scam,"

There was silence in the cabin as they considered these new findings, "So Saint Bob, is actually a devil in disguise?" John asked and Sally nodded,

'Damn, and there goes any hope for the good in humanity," Scout mumbled.

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked at the three of them, " 'roves my point," he slurred, not bothered to form proper words,

'What point?' John asked, twisting around in his chair to look at the detective,

"Heroes don't exist," Sherlock said, not bothering to open his eyes,

"Not true," Sally said, sending a pointless glare his way, pointless because his eye were closed,

"Yeah, not true," Scout agreed, "we're sitting with a hero in this room," Sherlock opened his eyes to find them all pointedly staring at John and found, for the first time, that he conceded. Heroes do exist, he smiled as John met his gaze, the brown eyes embarrassed, you just got to be lucky enough to find them.

* * *

HEY!

I'm sooo sorry for the long delay, but I think I'll be updating Friday nights from now on, because I'm buried in homework every other day, so...yeah.

But I love you all so much for your support

Aza

xoxo

P.S. C'mon. Who wouldn't want to stay in Prince Harry's guest house? ^_^


	12. Strip tease

**Quick update because I felt like it. Regret it now because I haven't done my English homework. Oh well.

* * *

**

**Chapter 12**

As John walked into the mess hall, followed by Sherlock and Scout, he felt like he was really a trainee. While the place didn't go silent, all eyes fell on him and Sherlock, and he knew he was blushing. Sometimes, he really hated his body. There were a few snickers around the room as Scout urged them to the remaining spots to the right of the door, and, surprisingly, the men and women sitting there actually moved aside for them, allowing them room to sit on the one bench, next to each other. Before John could say anything to Scout or Sherlock the woman sitting next to him spoke up. Her glossy brown hair fell into dark eyes as she turned to look at the doctor,

"What are you doing here, doctor?" she asked, eyeing the red cross on his arm, "you obviously aren't a cadet," her voice was like honey and for a second John found himself completely tongue –tied as everyone on the table laughed at his attempt at coherent speech, "I-er-well-have to-train" John finally stammered out to more laughter and the woman joined in, her teeth so white John wondered what she was doing in the army when any fashion agency would have her.

Sherlock glared at the woman who kept laughing at John's reaction, and felt a pang of jealousy, even though he knew John would never cheat on him.

"I'm Madeleine Edgly," she said, holding out her hand,  
"John. Watson," the doctor took Madeleine's hand, only just remembering what his surname was, and shaking it with a smile on his face,

"We call her Maddie," Scout said from next to John and Maddie took her startling gaze off John and turned it onto Scout,

"Sergeant," she said and John watched as the man turned the same colour as the tomato sauce that covered the pasta in front of them.

"Hey Maddie," he said, his voice soft and the table burst into laughter,

"John," Sherlock grabbed the doctor's attention,

"Hmm?" John asked, his mouth full of food. Sherlock rolled his eyes,

"Can I talk to you?" he asked, smiling much too sweetly for John's liking. Before John could reply and tell Sherlock that no, he couldn't, because John was starving, Sally walked in, wearing the fatigues this time, and spotted them.

"Hey guys," She said, sliding onto the seat between John and Maddie, the latter holding out her hand to Sally,

"Maddie," she said, and Sally shook it, smiling,

"Sally,"  
"You're in my cabin," Maddie said, and Sally smiled,

"Really?"

"Yeah, we were told we'd be getting a new kid," she said and Sally laughed,

"Good to know,"

While everyone was talking and John started a conversation with the corporal sitting across from them, Sherlock was wondering when he could get John alone. It was obvious that the man was not going to leave his dinner, and there was nowhere in here that was private. Plus, after dinner, in the half an hour they have before lights out, Sally was probably going to come over to their cabin. Sherlock downed the last bite on his plate and got up, feeling slightly irritated when John didn't turn around to at least ask him where he was going, but kept talking.

Walking over to the washing racks, Sherlock all but slammed his tray down, the sound only mingling with every other sound in the hall. Working himself into a real temper tantrum, Sherlock turned around and stomped out of the mess hall and into the fresh air outside. He turned his collar up and walked across the ground as the first drop fell from the now stormy sky.

Sherlock climbed the stairs to their cabin and slammed the door behind him, keeping the light off. The cabin was, as he expected empty and Sherlock huffed before walking to his bed and falling onto it. He kicked off his boots without using his hands, and, keeping his eyes closed, as he couldn't see anything anyway, Sherlock yanked off his jacket leaving the t-shirt on, as the heating in these cabins was on way too high for his liking. Pushing thoughts of what he would like to do to get John's attention – including climbing onto the roof in a storm and tell John he was going to jump if he didn't get any attention – he let the tiredness that ached around his body get a hold of him and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

The next thing Sherlock heard was the whistling of the wind and the laughter of John and Sally, who were walking into the cabin. Opening his eyes and lifting his arm enough to see but not to make it obvious he was awake, Sherlock watched as John, ever the gentleman took Sally's coat and hung it on the back of the door.

"Quiet, you'll wake him up," John said, motioning to Sherlock who felt every last bit of jealously and ill-feelings towards John disappear, "He gets little sleep as it is,"

"Why?" Sally asked softly, as the two of them took a seat at the centre table. Sherlock gazed into John's eyes as the doctor looked at him, knowing that the dim light of the bulb would not highlight the flicker of his eyes under his arm,

"Because he's an idiot," The words came out softly as John turned his gaze back to Sally and Sherlock didn't know whether he wanted to hug John or hit him for being so sentimental. Somehow, he decided that it wouldn't be the latter.

"What are we going to do?" Sally asked, stretching out and looking at the doctor,

"About the Howell situation? I don't quite know yet," John mumbled, his eyes tired and Sally laughed,

"Wait for tomorrow?" she asked, and John nodded,

"We don't know all the facts yet. We need to find out more, now that Bob being bad is an actual possibility," he said, watching the light swing slightly as warm air from the vents in the roof blew over it. He figured the army needed to get its priorities right. They bothered with ducted heating, but couldn't spend a little on better lighting.

Sally sighed, "We should probably both get some sleep," Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat as a thought occurred to him, triggered by Sally's words. This was the first night in months that he was going to sleep alone and he didn't like it. So what if John was in the same room? It wasn't the same. Sherlock watched as John nodded,

'Well that was rather pointless," he said, 'you have to brave that again" he nodded towards the rain that was lashing the glass and Sally chuckled,

"Eh, I like water," Sally got to her feet and so did John,

"I'll come with you," he said and Sherlock almost decided to come out of his false sleep, but then couldn't be bothered,

'Are you sure?" Sally asked, pulling on the fatigues' outer jacket and shivering as the wet material touched her neck. It was only water-proof to a certain point,

"Yeah, can't have you wandering around on your own, can we?" John asked, chuckling and Sally smiled as she opened the door. John zipped his jacket up as he stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

He grabbed Sally's hand and pulled her towards the female cabins and she laughed,

"I think everyone's going to get the wrong idea about us!" she said, having to yell over the sound of the storm. John stopped to give her look, which, even in the distorted light of the lamppost three metres from them, was obviously sceptical,

"I think I'm pretty obvious with Sherlock," John said, not entirely sure why he felt the need to have this conversation outside, in the rain,

"No, not really," Sally said, also wondering why they were standing outside but making no move to go anywhere else,

'What do you mean?" John asked,

"Well, there isn't a single woman who was at dinner tonight who doesn't want to know your relationship status,"

"What?' John asked and Sally laughed at his utter disbelief,

"They all asked me,"

"When?" John racked his brain to try and remember when he had seen Sally having a covert conversation with anyone but couldn't remember anything happening,

"Right during dinner," Sally said and John shook his head,

"Seriously?" he asked,

"Yes. Why, considering any offers?" she asked teasing, and John flushed,

"Don't-no-why," he tried to think of something mildly intelligent but was saved the trouble,

"Relax, I know you love Sherlock," John didn't know what to say. Yeah, he always admitted to himself, that he loved the man and he joked about it with Sherlock…but somehow, when someone else said it…it made it so much more real, solid, and it felt like all his Christmases had come at once. He grinned broadly at the sergeant,

"Yeah," he said, nodding, "Yeah, I do,"

Thunder cracked above them reminding them that they were still outside and we both shivering, but neither had noticed, "Let's go," John said, once again grabbing Sally's hand and dragging her along. She laughed as John almost tripped and he shot her glare as they mercifully reached her cabin,

"Here we are, m'lady," John said, bowing slightly and Sally laughed, opening the door,

'See you tomorrow, yeah?" she asked and John nodded,

'Tomorrow," he replied and Sally went inside., closing the door behind her.

* * *

John looked back out across the grounds to where his cabin was and decided he couldn't actually get any wetter, so he decided to walk. As he left he heard squeals from the cabin behind him and glanced behind to watch through the previously dark window as Sally was cornered by every woman in her cabin, and as she laughed and pushed them playfully away. He shook his head. What was so attractive about him? and more importantly, where were all these women when he was younger?

He strolled across the ground, his skin numb from exposure, and let his mind wander as he made his way back to the cabin, the thought of a warm, dry bed, in occupying his mind.

* * *

John walked into the cabin and flicked the light on, sighing as the warm air hit him as he closed the door. Sherlock was still awake, and, while he wondered briefly what took the doctor so long, he watched as John walked to his bed and stripped off his jacket, moaning slightly as he stretched his worn out muscles. Sherlock felt his breathing speed up as John lifted his t-shirt off as well, to reveal a chest, that in the swinging light, and from this distance looked like it was made out of marble – a real life David, standing in front of Sherlock, dripping with rain water that John had no doubt collected from his little outing. Reminding himself to breathe, he watched as John, unaware that his partner was awake, reached down and pulled his shoes off, quickly followed by his socks. Shivering, John unbuckled his pants and removed them as quickly as possible, leaving them on the floor and Sherlock slightly breathless as he went to look for his towel.

Sherlock shifted slightly – not enough to make any noise – to keep John in his vision as the doctor found his duffel bag which was across the room, and extracted his towel dressed only in a pair of briefs. John draped the towel loosely around his neck after running it up and down his chest and back, before, very uncaringly (uncaring because Sherlock couldn't move if he wanted to), the doctor proceeded to remove his last article of clothing.

Sherlock stopped breathing all together as the light swung slightly from the rafters and the shadows shifted over the doctor's figure, bent over, looking for a dry set of clothes, ghostly in this light. To Sherlock's eyes, it was as if he was looking at an angel, transfixed and unable to move but wanting oh so very much to move and do what he liked to that angel. Finally, mercifully, John found his underwear and a spare army t-shirt and pulled them both on. Ruffling his hair with the towel, John walked over to his pants and threw them over the back of the chair, picking up the rest of his clothes and chucking them to the other side of the room, before walking to the light and flicking it off, deciding that he wasn't going to bother with pants. Sherlock, by this point was feeling quite dizzy from the lack of oxygen and light-headed from all the blood rushing to one particular organ, and, as the light flicked off, he finally remembered to breathe. He drew in a silent breath and let it out again, watching the shadow of his John huff before sliding into bed, and realised he wasn't going to last the night. Now, how exactly was Sherlock going to get into the good doctor's bed?

* * *

**Okay. Yes. Fluff. I like it occasionally, you know. :D **

**Sneaking into bed is next Chapter, courtesy of _doctorcoffeegirl_, who gave me the idea. :D**

**I **_**will**_** return to the main storyline after that. I just felt like something light. :D  
**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	13. Unexpected visitors

**Hello again. I'm sick -_- and so I started writing. **

**:D**

* * *

**Chapter 13**

Blood. Everywhere. On his hands, on his clothes, and he couldn't get it off him. He was a doctor for god's sake…John blinked as the scene changed…and he was back in his Afghanistan Operating Room. A young man…barely twenty lay in front of him. There was terror in his eyes as he stared at the doctor. John stood there, as he flat lined, and those expressive eyes glazed over. Everyone was yelling, pointing at him, as he stood there and the lad bled out on his operating table.

Bombs. Everywhere. John was running, the gun in his hands felt cold against his skin, huge, heavy. The ground was slipping away from him. Sand beneath him, just sliding away from underfoot. He screamed, he knew he screamed, but there was no sound. And suddenly, the cabin's roof was in front of him.

It blurred as tears formed in his eyes, as the fear blazed through him, along with adrenaline, forcing him to sit up, the warm air from the heating washing over him – right before the guilt crashed into the doctor. There were many soldiers that died in front of him, so, so many men...a sob wracked the doctor's body as the tears fell, the pain, the memories that he locked away, hid even from Sherlock, appeared again, forced their way out of that little box at the back of his mind. He knew the medical facts found him a faultless doctor – the men and women were already slipping away when they were brought to him, but he always felt he was to blame. He should've done something more, damn it! Another sob shook the doctor as he pulled his knees to his chest. He could've done something more. John drew in a shuddering breath and breathed out again, shaking, feeling a twinge in his shoulder and rolling it to release the stress. He glanced over at Sherlock to find him still asleep and was glad that he hadn't woken the detective. Taking in another deep breath, John lay back down, slowly, blinking away the tears and wiping his face, focusing just on breathing in and out. Despite loving the challenges that the army had brought, as the doctor attempted to get back to sleep, he knew that at night, there would be no rest for him, and there never would be, not when Sherlock wasn't there. His own personal nightmare cure.

* * *

The bell rang and echoed around the antique yet modern house as Lestrade channel surfed, amazed to found that over 300 channels were at his disposal. Lestrade, wondering who would be at his door at his time and in this whether, got to his feet and opened his door – to be greeted with the sight of Stone under an umbrella.

"Stone?"

"Sir," Stone corrected and Lestrade grinned,

"I can't even get Donovan to call me that any more," he said, a little disappointedly and Stone rolled his eyes, knowing that something like that quip would've come from the DI, 'Can I at least get out of the rain?" the director asked, and Lestrade stepped back to allow the man to enter.

Lestrade flicked on the hall light and turned to face the Director,

'So?" the DI asked,

"You'll be joining the others tonight," Stone said and Lestrade sighed,

"Why couldn't I go in the daytime?" asked Lestrade,

"Because, you were sleeping," Stone replied and Lestrade didn't even find it even remotely surprising that they were watching him. Thankfully, he hadn't done anything overly embarrassing.  
"Right…do you have any extra clothes?" Lestrade asked, doubting that he would be allowed into the military base looking like they dragged him here from London,

"Ah yes," from underneath his trench coat, Stone produced a package that was pretty bulky and Lestrade wondered how he had manage to conceal it under there,

"Military fatigue," Stone said and Lestrade glanced at him,

"I'm going to the base?"

"No, you're going to Afghanistan," Stone said and Lestrade stared at the man,

"Yes!" Stone exclaimed, irritated, 'Yes you're going to the base," he pointed towards the bedroom, "Get changed now," he said and Lestrade followed the order.

The director walked into the lounge room shaking his head, why did no one get his sarcasm these days except for Matt? Stone smiled as the thought of the base commander. He had no idea that Matt had been based here. Last he heard his best friend was in Afghanistan. Obviously not. Stone took Lestrade's vacated seat and looked at the television.

By the time Lestrade had figured out how to get the uniform on – it was starched to the point that he was sure it would stand by itself, without him in it – Stone was engrossed in the program that was on. Lestrade rolled his eyes,

"Can we go now?' he asked, finding that he was going to miss this house,

"Yeah," Stone stood up and straightened his jacket flushing at being caught off guard by his sub-ordinate, "You'll be staying with Sherlock and John and the rest of your uniform is sitting underneath your bed,

'Are we with others?" Lestrade asked as he turned the TV off and flicked the lounge room light off, walking into the brightly lit hallway,

"No, it's just the three of you," Stone walked outside and waited for Lestrade to follow him, flicking that light off too and closing the door behind him. He handed the key to Stone and turned to look at the Director,

"Right, let's get going, shall we?"

As Lestrade got into the car, two kilometres from the base, inside the barracks, Sherlock was sitting up in his bed and staring at John, sleeping across from him. He had cursed when he woke up for some unexplained reason because he had meant to stay awake and creep over as soon as the doctor was asleep. Judging by how steady John's breathing was, Sherlock figured it must be around two o'clock in the morning. The doctor was well and truly asleep, so Sherlock knew this was going to be easy. Carefully, he got to his feet, as, two kilometres away, the engine of the Buick started up and revved before the car started to move forward. Sherlock padded to John's side of the room, careful not to brush against the pants that laid on the back of the chair, as the metal buckles would've made brushed against each other. Standing next to John's bed, the consulting detective wondered briefly whether or not John would kill him for this, before lifting the sheets and gently sliding in next to John.

The doctor moved slightly and Sherlock froze, but then strong arms wrapped around Sherlock's torso and the detective allowed a self-satisfied smirk to cross his lips and the doctor rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder. The detective was about to declare victory to himself when the sound of a car approaching outside made John shift and roll, bringing Sherlock on top of him, still strong, even while asleep. Sherlock froze, and as he did so, John woke up.

Outside the car door opened, slammed, and Stone and Lestrade greeted the commanding officer that awaited them. Together, they made their way towards the cabin, hoping that they didn't wake anyone else up. Inside, John stared in confusion at Sherlock as realization dawned on him, 'Sherlock!" he exclaimed, kicking the covers of them and sitting up as best he could, causing Sherlock to straddle his hips to stay on him. Before Sherlock could say anything smart, the front door opened, the light flickered on and Lestrade, Stone and their Base Commander walked in.

There was a moment of silence when John quickly assessed how this looked and what the chances of being taken away from Sherlock were. _Damn the man,_ were the only words going through his head as he efficiently managed to stand up, ignore the startled look on Sherlock's face and slam him onto the ground – hard, "and that, Sherlock is how you accomplish a back-throw and pin to the ground – you do not, under any circumstances make sure your enemy lands on a soft surface."

Sherlock just stared up at the doctor in half astonishment and half irritation as his back smarted from the pressure, "Oh, hello Lestrade, Commander, Stone," John said, getting off Sherlock and standing to welcome them, well aware that he was not wearing any pants and grateful that army logistics had made sure that his shirt could've passed for a dress.

'Sir,' Stone automatically corrected, still frozen along with Lestrade and the commander at the rather odd – but thankfully not disturbing sight that greeted them on the floor. 'Major," Thornton started, finally forcing his muscles to move and take him out of the rain, "Why in heavens name are you practising tackling in the middle of the night?"  
"Neither of us could sleep," John said, having clueless as to how he managed to keep so composed and dignified as he stood there _without any pants on,_

"Where the bloody hell are you pants?" Lestrade asked, his voice pitched slightly higher than normal and John glanced down as though he's _just_ noticed they were missing,

"Over there," he said, pointed to the chair, "I escorted Cadet Donovan back to her cabin and got completely soaked in the process, naturally, I had no other pants and couldn't be bothered walking to the laundry to get another pair.

The three men in the room stared at the major and the detective – who was still on the floor as moving was painful (John felt a twinge of guilt, but it was the consulting detective's own fault), before all three of them just acted like this wasn't in any way strange. Stone shut the door and joined Lestrade and Thornton at the table,

'What are you doing here?' John asked, walking to the chair and pulling his pants off the back before Stone sat down on them. Lestrade blushed as he let his eyes travel the well-toned muscles of the doctor's legs before the still slightly damp pants covered them.

'We have a mission," Stone said and John's brow furrowed, offering a hand to Sherlock. The detective glared at the doctor for a moment, who raised his eyebrows infinitesimally before Sherlock gave up and took the hand. He couldn't stay mad at John even if he were ran through with a sword by the doctor. God knows, he deserved it some times.

"Now?' John asked, finally feeling a little more comfortable and joining the men at the table. Sherlock contented himself with leaning on the doctor's chair, the golden hair below him flickering and catching he light as John moved.

This was starting to become an unhealthy obsession, Sherlock decided, all this watching John meant that Sherlock could tell immediately what was wrong, though, so that was a bonus, as he knew he was terrible at recognising emotions. Sherlock lifted his eyes to look at the others and found he wasn't the only one observing John as Stone removed folders from the plastic sheeting kept in his pocket and John reached out for them. Greg's eyes were fixed on John's movements and Sherlock wondered what John was doing that was so intriguing. His eyes narrowed as the DI kept watching. Finally, as though remembering he was meant to be paying attention, the DI turned back to the explanation going on below them, but before he did so, he raised his eyes to meet Sherlock's and the detective registered with shock the light of shame in them.

It was gone almost immediately as the DI smiled at Sherlock who returned it by twitching the corners of his mouth upwards, still in shock over what he might have observed…but…no…

Sherlock had never doubted his brain before, and had never doubted any deductions he had made – but he could be wrong. He briefly remembered John's phone and the deduction about a brother – and decided he must be wrong here. Lestrade wasn't in any way attracted to John. Sherlock focused back on the proceedings at hand. There was no way that Lestrade was lusting after his John, because Lestrade was ram-rod straight – hell, Sherlock ought to know.

* * *

Sherlock just tuned back in to hear John say, "I'll get her,"

"Right," Stone got to his feet, "They'll be back before the end of the night," he said to Matt, who nodded,

'Even if they're not, I'll tell the sergeant that he'll have a day off," Stone nodded and gestured to Sherlock and Lestrade,

'You two, with me. John, go get Sally," The doctor went to his bed and pulled on his socks before yanking on his boots. Tying the laces up, he got to his feet.

John walked out of the cabin, before turning around and walking back inside, "Any chance of getting a jacket?" he asked and the commander raised an eyebrow, anything but pleased at the state of undress John seemed to be in. If anyone asked him, he'd tell them he slept in full uniform, minus the boots. It was true, ask his wife.

'Go to the laundry, we'll get your clothes washed and dried. You'll have to live with the idea of being a cadet." The commander said, his icy gaze bearing down on John, who, even after his three-year stint in Afghanistan was intimidated by it.

John laughed slightly nervously and jogged towards the laundry, clearly labelled in front of him, the light from the lampposts the only source of light, as up above, the sky was covered in clounds. Running inside he looked at the neatly folded clothes and went through until he found his size, pulling the jacket on, crisp and clean, before turn and heading towards Sally's cabin.

* * *

He was still doing the buttons up as he arrived in front of the building. The doctor grimaced at the thought of having to enter to wake her up, or risk waking the entire cabin up by knocking, and opened the door. The light from outside, cast by the lights that stayed on all night, flooded into the cabin, and John looked around, past all the sleeping forms, finding the fuzzy mop of hair poking above the sheets. Creeping into the cabin John walked over to Sally, stepping over all the things that littered the floor. He gently bent over and shook Sally awake.

The former police sergeant moved and mumbled something or the other but didn't wake, 'Sally," John whispered, shaking her again. This time, Sally's eyes did flicker open. There was a flash of confusion as she sat up, the sheets falling off her. She rubbed her eyes, 'what are you doing here?" she asked, briefly wondering whether John had gone completely mad on account of Sherlock as he was most definitely _not_ allowed in here,

'We need to go," he said, wishing he didn't sound quite so urgent to get out of here. There was something about this cabin that felt different to him, and he didn't like it.

'Where?" Sally whispered, even as she asked the question spinning so that she could get her boots on, getting read to go. John sat on the bed as she tied her laces still half asleep. Sally stumbled to her feet and led the way to door. This time, however, John wasn't quite so careful on the way out about everything that was on the floor. He didn't see the discarded pair of pants on the ground and tripped over them, falling face first into the floor boards, taking with him the corner of one of the cadets bedposts with a crack that woke everyone up with a jolt.

The cadet whose bed he tripped over sat up, her long, razor straight hair falling into her eyes as she stared at the man sitting on the floor, "John?" she asked, as everyone else woke up fully and the name, along with the word 'doctor' was repeated, as women got out of bed to see for themselves the doctor on the ground, pulling himself up. John stumbled to his feet, blushing furiously and thanking god that there wasn't enough light to highlight this fact. Sally was biting her lip, trying not to laugh, as the doctor lost his balance again, the pants tangled around his legs. He bent down and untangled them, muttering under his breath about stupid pieces of clothing and lack of order, 'Doctor?" Maddie asked and John straightened, finally able to remove the pants from around his legs, 'those are mine," Maddie said, as the cabin fell silent, a few giggles scaping. John glanced down, and swallowed, the movement lost in the darkness of the room. "Here," He said, placing them at the foot of her bed,

'We'll be going now," Sally said, chocking slightly on her words as she tried to contain her glee,

'Where?" Maddie asked, curious, and the only one who wasn't in silent fits of laughter at the awkwardness of John's position,

'Um…out," John grabbed Sally's hand, and as the room exploded into conversation, most of which was directed at him, he led Sally out and pulled the door shut behind them.

* * *

Sally burst into laugher as the doctor dragged her across the ground, and to the waiting car. John knew that this just reinforced the 'fact' that they were a couple and he prayed that the news wouldn't reach Sherlock's ears.

Sally managed to bring the laughter down to a couple of chuckles as they neared the car and she looked at John, forcing him to stop with a tug on his hand, 'Where are we going?" she finally managed,

'Get in," John said, a small smile forming on his face as he watched the scene in his head again, and realised what a fool he must have looked. Sally kept watching his face, and she broke into laughter again and this time John joined her.

* * *

From inside the car, Sherlock heard Sally's laughter first and shushed the rest of the car as they listened to it getting closer. There was a moment where there was silence and Sally asked a question, too softly for them to hear through the bulletproof glass and metal. Here was silence again and this time, John's laughter joined in as both of them started laughing themselves silly. Sherlock exchanged a glance with Lestrade who shrugged and Stone sighed,

'What are they doing?" he asked, as the laughter continued and Sherlock sighed,

"I'll get them,"

The detective opened the door and felt a twinge of jealously and a spike of anger as his back throbbed with the motion of moving to get to John and Sally as John laughed openly, holding his side as he panted, in considerably better shape than Sally, who had all her wait on the car as she laughed and cried. 'Are you coming?" Sherlock asked, hoping that the smile across his featured looked real enough. John turned his attention to Sherlock, who, in the dim light looked like a vampire, and he started laughing at what Sherlock would say if he heard it. Sally sobered up, though, and, while she was still smiling she ushered John towards the car,

'Get in," she said, repeating John's words. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulder as a form of greeting and wondered what he had eaten, because he felt relatively drunk.

* * *

The two of them climbed into the car and Sherlock followed, closing the door, as John's breathing returned to normal, as did his expression,

'Where are we going?" Sally asked, feeling a little like a broken record as Stone gave the signal to start the car, and open the gates,

'Well, I never got to finish my explanation about Bob Howell, did I?" Stone asked, and every shook their heads, John, albeit, a little belatedly,

"Mr. Howell is responsible for our little chase on the high seas," Stone said, his face darkening at what embarrassment that had caused. The satellite footage had captured it all, as there were no clouds that day, and it had a perfect view. Both SIS and MI5 were laughing about it. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind, "I don't want to hear arguments against it, because I've seen the case and it's taken three years to work the damn thing out," Stone added, looking around and Sally nodded,

'We had been thinking about it, Stone," she said, "and we have considered it a possibility,"

"Only a possibility, mind," Sherlock added, and Stone nodded, while Lestrade looked between all of them, confused, but keeping his mouth shut and his eyes off John as Stone continued, "The only thing is, he's untouchable,"

'So why are we going after him, then?" Sherlock asked, his tone a little sharper than he had originally intended. He was still a little peeved at John (he'd never dealt well with rejection) and seeing him with Sally had worsened his mood. They had their moments, but never was John's laughter that raucous with Sherlock.

Sherlock told his mind to _shut up, so what if he never made John laugh like that? It was always the other way around anyway, _as Stone answered,

'We have an ace he never expected,"

'Which is?" Lestrade asked, catching on that "Howell" must be referring to Saint Bob, who, in this current light was anything but a saint, and that he was their current enemy. Stone looked from one face to another, knowing his next words may just get him shot, hit or both,

"Moriarty,"

* * *

**Neheh. Wow. Long Chapter, huh? Well. I was home sick. Because I have a headache and a sore throat, and as long as I don't talk, I'll be fine. :D**

**Told you dear old Jim was coming back into the story. And sorry for the darkness at the start, this story positively refuses to listen to what I have to say, and my opinion doesn't count. XD**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	14. Prison

**And here we are again! :) **

**Chapter 14**

* * *

Silence greeted Stone's statement and he looked from one shocked face to another, even Sherlock's normally passive face betrayed his emotion, and it was clear to Stone that his first assumption was right, he was going to be shot and hit from two, three or four different angles.

The car rumbled over a rough patch in the road as the clouds shifted in the silent breeze that blew up ahead, the stars glinting, as if watching the black shadow that whipped through the night.

"What?" Lestrade asked, much as Stone expected,

"We're going to see Moriarty," Stone repeated, and finally, spurred everyone else into action as well,

"Why?" Sally asked, stretching the word out as if she were afraid that Stone wouldn't catch it,

"Because we need help, I thought I explained that already,"

'What help could we possible get from a madman?" Sally asked and Sherlock had to raise an eyebrow at the use of the word 'madman'

"He's not a madman," the words escaped Sherlock's lips before he had a chance to catch them and the car descended into silence again – a horrified one.

John felt like someone was taking his heart and twisting it just a little as words spoken what seemed like a long time ago came back to him _'One day there's going to be a body and Sherlock will be standing over it," _John met Sally's eyes and caught the glimpse of sadness that shone in it. Sherlock closed his eyes, his heart beating louder than he'd ever heard it before, knowing that he shouldn't have said those four words while all that went through Greg's mind was _what the bloody hell just happened?_

Stone swallowed audibly as he glanced from one person to another, knowing that even though it wasn't really his fault, he would forever feel guilty if this group failed to work together. After all, finding people competent enough for what was ahead wasn't an easy task.

Sherlock allowed himself to open his eyes and glanced at John, before wishing he didn't. The usual humor and, lately, love that met Sherlock's eyes was gone and instead, there was doubt there. Sherlock wanted to say something – anything to let John know that he didn't mean anything by that one statement, but Stone cleared his throat and John determinedly broke eye contact with Sherlock.

"Well, erm," Stone looked around, 'we'll be there soon. I, er, suggest you get some sleep," he finished, and watched as John crossed his arms and closed his eyes. Sally looked at Sherlock, managed a somewhat weak smile and turned to look out the window. Lestrade looked as lost as Sherlock felt and shrugged his shoulders slightly as Sherlock's grey eyes questioned him. Sherlock sighed and looked left, out the window to see his own reflection staring back at him and schooled his features into the blank slate he could pull off so well as the car continued on its way to London.

* * *

They pulled up outside HM Prison Frankland, a category A prison, sitting in Brasside, Durham. John stared at the place and wondered why he was so surprised at the location and the fact that England's most notorious criminals were locked up here. Moriarty was a psychopath and was dangerous. Just because, before his being locked up, he had been civil and polite to both him and Sherlock, didn't mean that it was going to last or that he was a changed man. And John had to keep reminding himself of this, before he forgot that Moriarty had taken people's lives all for the fun of the game. Which brought the doctor's thoughts back to Sherlock – who seemed to be asleep as they waited for clearance that would no doubt to obtained by Stone.

John looked around the car. Stone had gotten out earlier, and had left the four of them inside, and everyone was asleep except for John. The army medic let his eyes travel over Sherlock's face and realized that the detective really was asleep, and wasn't feigning it, because he never looked so sweet and innocent and…young; John chuckled softly and gently brushed a lock of ebony hair out of Sherlock's closed eyes, his hands feather light on Sherlock's skin. The sharp features looked soft in the harsh light from the lampposts above them that filtered through the tinted glass. John sighed. Maybe what happened earlier was just a slip, he told himself, Sherlock's comment still too clear in his mind. John shook his head angrily. Why the hell was something like this causing him so much of angst? For god's sake it was _one _statement. John frowned and came to a decision. He was going to forget. That's what he would do. No one had ever given Sherlock a chance. No one believed that he was worth it – but he did. God did he believe that Sherlock was worth the head in the fridge and everyone else be damned, he didn't care anymore.

As Stone made his way back to the car, John gently took Sherlock's hand in his and intertwined his fingers, causing the detective to stir but not wake. Stone opened the door and glanced at the joined hands before shaking Sally awake, ignoring John and hiding the small smile,

'Let's go, sleeping beauty," he said, and watched as Sally mumbled something that was anything by flattering, before he nodded to Lestrade and Sherlock, who was still, miraculously, asleep, "Get him awake, I'll meet you at the gates,"

Sally grumbled and rubbed her eyes, leaning over to Lestrade as John woke Sherlock. Both detectives, official and unofficial woke slowly and whined about it too as they were dragged from the car by a determined doctor and sergeant. Neither was going to let them live this down.

As the cold air hit them, Sherlock woke up fully and realized that John was holding his hand, despite the fact that there was no great need. "John? He asked, keeping his voice low and the doctor turned his head to look at him.

"Yes, Sherlock? The detective was about to ask what was going on before, for the first time in his thirty-four years, he decided not to say anything, but just smiled, hesitantly, and John returned it, squeezing the hand he held slightly. They reached the gates ahead of Sally and Lestrade, the latter who was complaining loudly that he never knew why he agreed to this entire idea and then realized that he didn't agree and was about to start another rant when Stone cut him off with a _hurry up!_

* * *

The skies above them were clear but there was no moon as they stood in front of the gates, waiting for them to open and a loud buzz made Lestrade glance at Sally in slight anticipation. A fair few cells in this building had been filled by him and the sergeant, and he was pretty sure that none of them would be glad to see the people who put them in the jail.

They walked into the first part of the gates and John couldn't help but feel like they were going to prison as the huge gate crashed shut behind them. The slightly smaller, but not by much, gate in front of them swung backwards and they were standing in the main compound on the jail, the grounds around them empty and deserted, the benches and chairs scattered as if no on could be bothered putting them back into some sort of order. The barbed wire glinted in the bright lights that shone from the posts and the constant searchlight that swept the grounds, occasionally blinding the five visitors.

"We have to go to the cell itself, because Moriarty has refused to leave it and the guards honestly can't be bothered putting him in a straight jacket. There's just too much time needed because he fights all the way," Stone said, as they walked through the compound, the director seeming to know where he was going, leading them west, towards a building that was several stories high.

"So we'll have to walk through the prison?" John asked, remembering the last time he went into a prison was in Afghanistan and that was to get his mates out. Only three of them made it alive, and John shook his head, trying to clear the images that ran through it, "Yes," Stone said and Sherlock cast him a look, as if trying to read everything about the man, but it was lost on the medic because there was no light near them as they approached the door.

Sally shivered slightly despite the thickness of the army fatigue she was dressed in. There was something about prisons that always made her wonder why she became a cop in the first place.

Lestrade watched as the door was opened and they were allowed inside, greeted by a stoic faced prison officer. They walked in silence, one behind the other and their steps echoed off the walls, as the prisoners came to the bars of their cells to take a look at the new comers.

John kept his eyes on Stone in front of him as they passed the general section of the prison and walked into the psychiatric section, the lights brighter and the floors softer. They looked around at the closed off doors and John swallowed as they reached cell number 156, and Stone stopped. "Let me just prepare you," he said, looking at them and Sherlock rolled his eyes,

'We don't need any preparation," he said, " We chased him for a good year, Stone," he said, and Lestrade nodded,

"We don't care about him," the DI added, "All we care is about getting the information that we need from him and getting over and done with," he looked at John who conceded with a nod of his head,

'Yeah," John winced at the hoarse tone and wondered if he had a cold coming on, 'they're right. The less we know about Stone, the better," John's voice cracked slightly and he winced again, as Sherlock's hand came up to his shoulder.

"Alright," Stone said, reaching for his pocket and producing a key card, which he slid through the pad on the door, dialing the digits in. After glancing at everyone, John realised that they were waiting for him to go in first and he sighed. He looked at Sherlock and the detective gave a small smile. John took a deep breath and walked into the room, stopping dead in his tracks as he took a look at the man that sat inside that room.

* * *

**I'm so sorry it's taken this long to update. But between visiting in the hospital and school and homework, I fell so far behind in this. I'm sorry!  
**

**And my hamstring is still in a lot of pain from that stupid injury.**

**So be glad you're getting an update. **

**:)**

**Love**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	15. Assignment

**Here we are. Friday Updates. **

**SCHOOL'S OUT! YAY!**

* * *

**Chapter 15**

"Moriarty…?" John gasped, staring at the man who was currently sitting on the bed, playing solitaire, the black hair that he used to sport completely white, and shoulder length, partially hiding a scar that ran down the right hand side of his face. He looked up and sharp eyes glinted as he recognised the man standing in the doorway, his mouth slightly ajar at the look of completely serenity on the psychopath's face.

"John Watson." Moriarty smiled slightly as the others walked in, followed by Stone who shut the door behind them, "Doctor. John Watson," Moriarty repeated, smiling slightly,

"Ye-yes," John stuttered and Moriarty laughed,

"Still inarticulate as ever, John," he said and Sherlock drew the man's attention away,

"You haven't changed much,' the detective said and Moriarty chuckled, the sound dark, bouncing around the room,

"No, I just got knifed, had my hair bleached and I'm locked up in here," he said, looking at them with disgust, "So why are you here? Visiting for some old memories?"

Lestrade almost growled out aloud in frustration as he realised just how _irritating_ the man could be, "Shut up, Moriarty," he snapped and the psychopath uncrossed his legs to turn to face them, the bed on the other side of the room, "No, I think not. You're in my cell now," He grinned wickedly, and the scar stood out white against the tanned skin,

"We just need a few things from you," Stone said, trying to take control of the situation,

"Really what?" Moriarty turned back to the cards, wincing slightly as he moved his neck, Sherlock noticed, and wondered what he had done to hurt himself before reminding himself that it didn't matter.

Moriarty flipped one card over to reveal an ace of hearts,

"We need the name of your contacts on the black market," Stone said,

"I already gave them to you," Moriarty kept his eyes fixed on the cards and Stone exchanged a glance with John,

'All of those names were fake," John said, having requested the file from Scotland Yard after Moriarty was locked up,

"Not all," Moriarty moved the ace up and opened the card underneath – a king of hearts,

"Just what I need," he said, looking up to stare at John, the black eyes boring into the light brown. John met the eyes and dismissed the memory of being shoved into twelve kilos of semtex and remembering the smell of mint that seemed to hang around Moriarty. And the way that his hand lingered for way too long on his shoulder, rooting him in place that fateful night before the pool.

"Give us what we need," Lestrade said but Moriarty didn't reply, keeping his gaze fixed on John. Sally glanced at her boss who shrugged as the silence extended.

Sherlock was about to break by telling Stone that this entire thing was completely pointless, when Moriarty opened his mouth.

"I see that your pet's become something more," the psychopath said, his gaze sliding over to Sherlock and he took great pleasure as Sherlock's eyes darkened in anger,

"Let's go," Sherlock said and Stone shook his head,

'There's a chance of a lessened sentence," Stone said and Moriarty chuckled,

"By how much?" he asked at the same time that both John and Lestrade rounded on Stone,

"WHAT?" they asked, panic coursing through both of them as even the thought that Moriarty might get out was enough to make them worry,

'There's a chance of reducing your sentence by fifty years," Stone said and Moriarty's head snapped up and Jon's eyes widened.

Moriarty had been given a hundred year term, which, considering he was already thirty meant that he would not outlive it, and no one really expected him to be on good behaviour, to be let out on parol. Up until now, he hadn't been. But now...John looked at the man.

"Make it sixty five and I'll give you everything," he said, grinning like a maniac, which, Lestrade figured, he was.

"Stone!" John said, trying to get the director's attention, but he was determinedly looking anywhere but the four trainees, "Sir!" John said, and the plead was all too obvious. Moriarty laughed as Stone looked at John, "You can't let him out again," John said, and Sally tugged on Stone's sleeve, and he looked at her, his face blank,

"He'll kill as soon as he's out," she said, keeping her voice low,

"Sacred of me?" Moriarty asked, but no one looked at him, instead they looked at Stone, silently appealing to him, but he couldn't reply. He couldn't give them what they wanted,

"Fine," Stone said, replying to Moriarty, still looking at John, then at Sherlock, who, unlike John, kept his face blank, and horror set into the four of them, and the room appeared to get a little smaller as John processed the fact that Moriarty could be freed again.

"Really?" Moriarty asked,

"Yes." Stone sighed, hating himself as he did, "Yes. Fine, on the conditions that the contacts you give are all real," He finally looked at Moriarty to see him sweep the cards from the bed and get to his feet, "Pen and paper," he said, his eyes glinting and John felt like he was deflating, all the fear of the last year returning.

His worried gaze locked onto Sherlock's and the detective allowed his face to relax – but only slightly – enough for John to see that he wasn't unaffected. Lestrade watched as Stone handed the paper over along with a pen. This was wrong and he knew it. Damn it if there was some black marketeer on the loose – so long as Moriarty never got loose, everyone would be fine.

Sally grabbed his arm and shook her head slightly as Moriarty sat on the bed, the long white hair falling into his face, hiding the terrifyingly bright eyes, eyes that flicked across the paper with newfound purpose.

'We can't let this happen," John whispered, to Sherlock, Sally and Lestrade, who nodded slightly,

'We'll stop it somehow," Lestrade said, still not entirely sure how,

"Yeah," Sally said as the scratching of pen on paper filled the room and Stone let out a breath, the weight of the deal he just made sitting on his shoulders. He knew that this could hurt innocent people, but he had a job to do and a family to feed. He glanced at the four and almost flinched away as he met the meaningful gaze that John sent his way. He broke the contact and looked back at Moriarty. He watched as words, written in neat, precise writing filled the paper and wondered again why he never just retired.

* * *

After the trip to the prison, Stone went back to HQ to sort things out and the four trainees went back to the boot camp. Two hard, gruelling weeks past, and all four could feel their fighting skills, despite being good beforehand, grow and expand to the point that very few dared to take them on.

The worry of what was happening with Moriarty hung over all of them, as they met up after the long days. Sherlock wouldn't say much during those times – he didn't need to. He would lie on the bed and listen to the others, and as the days passed, he noticed that John was becoming a soldier again. Very rarely did he show any sign of outward affection towards Sherlock – to the world they were friends, and as more time passed, more and more women would try and ask John out and even after rejection, none of them gave up, but that was because John was way too nice. Every single time it happened Sherlock wanted to grab John and hide him in the nearest room and every night, Sherlock couldn't sleep because as soon as John started dreaming, the nightmares returned, and it ripped his heart in two every single time he heard the sobs. And he would get up, and would walk across the room and wake John up, and then allow the doctor to take comfort in his presence. And then, somehow, he always woke up before the call and was in his own bed every morning. Lestrade was none the wiser, but Sherlock found himself missing John's kisses.

* * *

Meanwhile, Lestrade found a way to get on in the day without thinking of his wife. He would bury himself in the work at hand, and, the more he tried to move on, he found he could do it, and as long as he _never_ let himself think of John in any other way as his best mate, things would be fine. He knew they would. And at night, when John was reminded of the terror of Afghanistan, Lestrade had to force himself to stay where he was, because comforting John in the middle of the night wasn't his to do. As much as he wanted to.

* * *

Sally was doing more than well. Maddie was soon her best friend and she found that she loved the evenings, catching up with all the female personnel, after a day spent with three men, all of whom did nothing but try to out run, out fight or just out do each other. She loved all three of them, even if sometimes Sherlock drove her to the point of madness, like when he stole her towel when she was in the shower. He needed it because he wanted a shower, apparently. But what was she supposed to do? She had to run back to her cabin wearing her underwear, which resulted in pictures she'd rather forget. But she loved it whenever Sherlock was cheeky because he was adorable. And when John yelled at him, he submitted to what he wanted and that was something that never got old for Sally.

* * *

In fact, by the end of the third week, with only one more week to go before they graduated with the others, not as Army officers, but rather as SIS agents, they had settled into the army routine, and were actually enjoying themselves – not that Sherlock would dare admit anything such as enjoyment.

Stone left them well alone for the rest of their training, and while they couldn't forget what was happening at the prison not too far from where they were, they were able to put it to the back of their minds.

* * *

Finally, four weeks after the prison visit, the four of them stood at the gates of training facility, out of their fatigues and back in civilian clothes – suits for the men and a light green dress for Sally, and none of them could honestly say that, five weeks ago, when they had been dragged into this mess, that they would've come out as they had.

"It was good having you with us," their Commander said, smiling warmly as they shook hands,

'It was good for us, too,' John said and the commander chuckled,

"The drill sergeant would've wanted to be here," he said, and Sally shook her head with a smile,

'New recruits?" she asked and the commander nodded,

"Yep…well," he looked at all of them as the gates opened to reveal a black car, waiting for them,

"I'm…going to miss this place," John said and Sherlock clapped him on the shoulder – a motion that he recently discovered and found he liked,

"You'll be fine," Sherlock said and John laughed,

"As long as you stay around," he said, smiling softly at the detective and Sally rolled her eyes,

'Can you at least wait until you get into the city?" she asked, and Lestrade laughed, looking down to hide the slight flush on his face,

"Why?" Sherlock asked and it was John's turn to laugh,

"C'mon," he said, grabbing Sherlock's arm, "Thankyou, Commander,"

"I hope I'll see you sometime soon, Major," the CO replied, and John nodded, leading the others towards the car.

The gates shut behind them as they climbed into the car, Sherlock pulling up last. As soon as the door closed the engine started, and John tried to get a glimpse of the driver through the black screen but found it, as usual, completely obscured.

"I believe you're sitting on something,' Sherlock said, smiling slightly as Lestrade jumped and reached underneath him to pull out a slightly squished manila folder.

'Why can't he _give _things to us?' John asked, frowning as Lestrade opened the folder and Sally laughed,

"An MI6 agent actually giving things? Don't be stupid," she said, and John laughed,

'What's in it?" Sally looked at the folder as Lestrade drew four passports and four plane tickets,

"Typical," Sherlock muttered and Lestrade looked at him,

'How many tickets have you received in a folder?" he asked, staring at Sherlock,

"Not too many, but I can tell you that those tickets are to where our first assignment is,' he said and Lestrade glanced down, and gasped,

'Where are we going?" Sally asked, unable to conceal her excitement,

"Australia," Lestrade said, looking surprised and John raised his eyebrows,

'Australia? What for?" Lestrade handed the tickets to Sally, next to him, as he opened the first passport – Sherlock's. His mouth dropped open as he stared at the picture of the man, his hair cut short, and his eyes glinting. Sherlock didn't even know when that was taken,

'Since when did you change your name?" Lestrade asked, looking up at him and he grabbed the passport, staring in horror at the name on the passport. He didn't care that there was a chance this mission could be dangerous. He did, however care, that his name was…Bob. Of all the bloody names…

He stared at the official thing as it if had done him some sort of injustice.

'What's his name?" John asked and Lestrade grinned,

'Bob Maxwell," he said and Sherlock glared at him when John chocked back a laugh,

"Ehrm…" the doctor managed, in an attempt to say sorry and Sherlock snatched up the next passport,

"What are you laughing at, Pierre Mannu?" he asked and the smile was wiped of John's face as Lestrade and Sally shook with laughter at the look of complete shock on John's face.

…He was _French?_

Lestrade opened the next passport to find that his new name was Mitchell Robson and grinned as John glared at the passport and the completely normal name, while Sally found that she was to be called Amy Wright and felt like throwing the passport out the window.

"This is ridiculous," John said, taking the folder from Lestrade, "He'd better have a bloody good reason…" John faded off as he read the information, and as he flushed, Sherlock began to get curious,

"What?" the detective asked,

"We're…" John faded off and looked up at Sherlock, and Sally, growing impatient, leant over Lestrade and grabbed the folder from John. She read the first two lines and her mouth dropped open. Lestrade read over her shoulder as Sherlock finally deduced what was going to happen,

"We're married," He said and John nodded while Sherlock felt a bubble of happiness inflating inside of him. He grinned widely and, after hesitating, John smiled back as Sally laughed and clapped her hands,

"OH MY GOD!" she said in a voice that was a little high pitched for Sherlock's liking, and Lestrade had to swallow.

"Isn't gay marriage not allowed in the UK?" John asked and Sherlock shrugged,

"You were married in Canada," Lestrade said, reading the fact file, "and you're both on your honeymoon in Australia."

"What are you two then?"

'We're…brother and sister?" Lestrade looked at Sally and John raised his eyebrows as Lestrade read on and the confusion was cleared up,

"Ah, adopted."

'Who was adopted?" Sally asked and John smiled,

'I was," Lestrade said,

"We're meant to be staying at…ah,"

'What?" John asked,

"Howell's hotel." Sherlock nodded,

'Makes sense, but what do we do there?"

'Wait a minute, will you?"

Lestrade turned the page and read on, "We are to stay there for three nights and act as tourists would,"

"What state are we in?"

'Victoria…Melbourne's CBD," Lestrade flicked back to the page he had been on before turning it again, "Anyway, we go around, eat out, but don't make contact with each other. Sally and I watch from afar. On the fourth night, there is a high roller's poker game and…holy shit," he said and John and Sally leaned in, while Sherlock sighed,

'Get on with it," The consulting detective said and Lestrade complied,

"John…you're a billionaire," John grinned,

"Really?" Lestrade nodded fervently,

'You're worth eight point nine billion at the moment and your shares keep going up…" Lestrade looked at him with envy,

"Keep going," John encouraged, as they turned onto the freeway that would take them back to London.

"Right…you play the game, and afterwards, will be invited to join Howell for dinner…that's when," Lestrade swallowed and looked at John,

"That's when you offer to join in his under the table business"

'What under-the-table business?" John asked and suddenly, Sherlock didn't like this,

"You…er…you have to deal drugs and-well-" Lestrade steeled himself, 'You have to join his mafia,"

"What?" John asked, "What about Sherlock,"

'Your…husband will know nothing about it, and life will go on, once you're in, we leave and go back to Australia,"

"If I'm doing all the buying what are you three going to do?" John asked,

'We'll be watching," Lestrade said, repeating the words on the page,

'With what?"

"We're to meet up with the Aussie feds over there and they'll help us,' said Lestrade when you go for the game, we'll be with them,"

'And what if John is found out?" Sherlock asked and Lestrade shrugged,

"It all depends,' he said and John sighed,

'When are we leaving?" Sally asked and Lestrade looked back down to the tickets,

'Two days,"

John sat back and stared out the window, through which it couldn't see anything but their reflection. He almost wished he were back at the camp doing some random exercises with Scout. Almost.

* * *

**So…makes up for the two weeks without updates?**

**I hope so. I spent a fair amount of time on this. **

**:D**

**Did you like it?**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	16. Random instances

**OMG. Thankyou all for the support! Reached a hundred reviews!  
**

**Speacial thanks to _Cookie369_ and _doctorcoffeegirl_ who have given me advice as to how the chapter is. and to _Mini Reyes_ - bcuase you're awesome!**

* * *

Chapter 16

"I liked my hair the way it was," Sherlock whined as he left the MI6 salon with an amused John at his side. The ebony curls had been cut back to leave Sherlock with a schoolboy style, with one lock left as it had been, but straightened – permanently – and falling into his eyes, much to his annoyance.

"This isn't fair," he mumbled and John shook his head,

"At least you got to keep your hair and eye colour," John said as they walked onto the street and avoided the few cars to get to the other side of the street and Sherlock glanced sidelong. Even though John got his hair dyed first, Sherlock was still not used to the pitch black, straight hair that John was now wearing accompanied by the emerald green eyes, that looked so perfect with that hair,

"It looks better than mine does," Sherlock said, as he fell in step with John and a woman at the florist actually dropped the flowers she was holding as they passed by. Not that either actually noticed.

"Your hair was to obvious as it was," John said, leading the way across another road,

"But…I liked it," Sherlock whined again and John shook his head,

"Sometimes, I feel like I'm married to a five year old," John said, the words 'I'm married' feeling very nice on his tongue, and Sherlock frowned,

"That's illegal," he said and John sighed.

'Shut up," He managed as Sherlock chuckled.

They had one more day in England before they were carted of to Australia, and Lestrade had gone to live with Sally for the two days, for reasons unknown. Sherlock didn't really question him because it _finally_ meant that he could be alone with John. The sun was actually shining that day, and even though completely ineffective against the cold wind, it brightened everything up. As they walked, Sherlock spotted a coffee stall, 'C'mon, John," he said, grabbing the doctor's hand and dragging him forward,

'SHERLOCK!" John yelled, as he was jerked from a slow walk to a bloody run. He shook his head as Sherlock pulled up at the stall and asked,

"You couldn't wait the extra three minutes?" Sherlock turned the steel gaze on John and cocked his head to the side,

"Just because your eyes are a different colour now, doesn't mean you get to have your way," he said, and John wondered when he had taken a step closer. They were brought out of their own little world by the vendor clearing his throat,

"What will it be today, gentlemen?" he asked, gesturing to the cups and smiling broadly,

"Erhm," Sherlock thought for a minute, "Espresso," he said and John sighed,

"Because you need more energy," he muttered and Sherlock wrapped one arm around John's waist, causing the doctor to jump slightly,

"You want to know what I need that energy for?" He asked, bringing his mouth close to John's ear and the doctor flushed bright red,

" 'ere we are then," he said handing the cup over and Sherlock payed, producing coins from somewhere in his coat. John didn't even know the man carried money around with him,

"Thankyou,' Sherlock said and pulled John away from the vendor and back onto the relatively empty footpath – after all, it was one twenty on a Monday.

'Where to now?" asked John, producing the list of tasks to completely before they left, hand delivered by Stone himself,

"You choose,' Sherlock said, taking a sip of the boiling coffee and yelped as he realised it was, in fact, still at around ninety three degrees,

"Idiot, you'll burn your tongue," John said, stopping them as Sherlock panted slightly,

"I ever would 'ave taught bout dat," Sherlock attempted a sarcastic tone, but it was completely spoiled by the fact that he had now developed a slight lisp. John smiled as Sherlock coloured,

"What was that Sherlock?" he asked, and Sherlock glared at him, the burning irritating,

'ut up," he said and John had to laughed, his breath creating a slight cloud in the cold air that surrounded them and he pulled Sherlock forward, to get them both walking,

'Shopping first?" he asked, looking at the list as Sherlock licked his teeth in an attempt to get the scalded feeling to go away,

"Yed," John shook his head as Sherlock growled in frustration,

'Relax, it will go away, give it a couple of minutes,' John's eyebrows shot up as he registered what was listed on the paper,

"We need a tux each," he said, staring at it and Sherlock sighed,

'Got one,' he said, annunciating clearly, pleased that actual words got out this time.

"I don't," John said, remembering that the last time he had worn a tux was when he was three at his Aunt's wedding,

"Well, let'd go then," Sherlock sighed as the 's' refused to form. He went to the edge of the footpath and spotted a Taxi. With the skill that only he possessed, managed to get it's attention.

* * *

Within five minutes they were standing on Savile Row and John was wondering who was going to pay for this,

'Sherlock, I can't afford anything here,"

'Pfft," was the consulting detective's only reaction as he took John's hand and pulled him towards Norton and Sons, the gentleman's bespoke tailor.

"Bespoke?' John asked, as they approached the shop, and Sherlock nodded, not trusting his tongue. He realised he still had the coffee in his hand and threw it in the nearest bin before entering the shop.

There was a quiet tinkle of the bell as Sherlock walked into the brightly lit shop, the floorboards so shiny John felt guilty for walking on them in his favourite pair of army boots. The man sitting behind the counter looked up. Eyes set in a weathered old face flashed with recognition, "Mr. Holmes! Sherlock!" he cried, getting to his feet, and striding, – yes, striding, John doubted half the teenagers in London had that much energy – he walked towards Sherlock, "Sherlock! I'm so glad to see you! It's been three years! My god, you just keep getting thinner, isn't Mrs. Hudson looking after you?" the old man ranted, and, for the first time John had ever seen, Sherlock hugged the old man whose laugh was like a thousand church bells – it echoed around the room with purpose – as if there wasn't a single thing that could stop him,

"My lad, you haven't changed a bit," Sherlock was grinning by this point at the look of utter shock on John's face,

"My friend," he said, and yanked John three steps forward, 'Doctor John Watson,"

"Doctor, very pleased to meet you,' the old man bowed slightly as he shook John's hand,

'John, please," the doctor managed and the old man smiled,

"This is our family tailor," Sherlock said and John had to refrain from rolling his eyes, "Anthony Brown," John nodded,

'Now, Sherlock, why are you here? Don't tell me that suit I made for you is already wearing down? What do you do in them? Run across London?" Anthony made his way back to the counter and Sherlock exchanged a glance with John. He didn't have the heart to tell the poor man that yes, he did run around London in it occasionally.

"Not for me, Mr. Brown," Sherlock said and the man raised his eyebrows, putting on a pair of glasses, 'you can charge whatever it is to the account, a new tuxedo is for the good doctor," Sherlock said and again, propelled John forward,

"Very well, Sherlock. Come with me, young man," Before John could so much as protest; a very persistent old man dragged him forward.

* * *

Three needle pokes, five glares, eleven muttered curses and an hour later, John and Sherlock walked out of Norton and Sons, "Bloody hell," John muttered as he rubbed his arm, where he had moved and the pin managed to dig into his arm,

'The idea is to stand still, John," Sherlock reprimanded, glad that his tongue – thanks to Mr. Brown's ice cubes – had finally stopped smarting.

'Oh because you manage that so well," John said as a cab pulled up in front of them. They climbed in and John huffed. He hated suits. He really did. And had no _idea _as to why Sherlock wore them so damn often. He glanced sidelong at the detective and realised that perhaps there was a reason. To temporarily mentally disable every woman that walked past? John huffed again and crossed his arms,

'Where to next?" Sherlock and John didn't reply. Deciding that there was no point trying to get the doctor to actually listen to him, Sherlock leant across the doctor and yanked the piece of paper out from his back jeans pocket,

"Oi!" John said and Sherlock laughed,

"Shush," he said and John uncrossed his arms, leaning in to see what they still needed,

"Well…we've got everything for now," Sherlock said, "All the other stuff is just reminders for weapons and what not,"  
"I still don't know how we're going to get weapons past security,"

"Easy," the consulting detective really did look like it was easy,

"What do you mean easy?" John asked,

"I've done it for a while now," Sherlock said,

"Well, how do you do it then?"

'Later, John," Sherlock said, as they pulled up outside Baker Street. John stared after Sherlock as he reached for his wallet. Muttering about idiot detectives, John payed and left the cab, walking through the still open front door. He shut it behind him and walked up the stairs to find Sherlock examining a tux. John walked into the flat and closed the door behind him,

'What are you doing with that?" The doctor asked and Sherlock rolled his eyes,

'What does one do with a tuxedo?" Sherlock replied and dropped the tux into John's hands,

"I'll be back," with that he left John in the living room holding the tux. John sighed and walked to the couch, dropping onto it.

They had exactly fifteen hours until they were on the plane out of here and his suit was to be delivered in three hours. He looked at Sherlock and noticed the red inside of the lapels and how beautiful it looked. _It'll positively amazing on Sherlock. _The doctor thought, and smiled as he realised that he was going to get to see Sherlock in a tuxedo, and knew his body was reacting to the images his mind had procured,

"What's so funny?" Sherlock asked as he walked back down the stairs, holding up a light green silk tie,

"Funny? Nothing? Hot? Something," John said, clipping the sentence to a few short words and Sherlock let out a shout of laughter,

"John, really. Do you think of anything else? Oh by the way," but Sherlock wasn't allowed to finish, as John answered his question,

"No, I don't think so," the major moved quicker than Sherlock thought possible. The tux was on the floor along with the tie and Sherlock was on the couch – a smiling John pining his down. Sherlock blinked a couple of times,

"You know I _can_ fight back," Sherlock said, the vibrations of his deep voice running up John's legs,

"Yeah, like our first night at boot camp? Remember?" John asked, undoing the first button of Sherlock's shirt as the detective coloured, a light flush that made him so innocent John felt slightly guilty,

"Don't remind me," Sherlock muttered and John pressed a kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth and the detective turned his head to meet his lips as John fully straddled the detective's hips.

"Hmmm…John!' Sherlock managed to get his mind online again to tell John something really important…as John pushed the shirt of his shoulders – _when did he undo all the buttons? – _

"Yes Sherlock?" the doctor trailed kisses down the side of Sherlock's neck and the detective gasped, attempting to remember what he was about to say as John successfully distracted him.

That was when Mycroft walked into the apartment accompanied by a laughing Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock remembered what he meant to tell John.

* * *

The elder Holmes froze, as did John and Mrs Hudson found herself grinning widely as she took in the scene,

'Don't you ever lock the door?" Mycroft asked as John turned the colour of Sherlock's shirt (now on the floor)

'Occasionally," Sherlock said, who, apart from the pink face looked completely unfazed by the fact that he was caught doing…well…that.

John clambered off Sherlock and ran a hand through his hair. He bent down and picked the shirt up, throwing it at Sherlock, "Why…err…why are you here?" John asked, ignoring Mrs. Hudson's laughter and thinking he had found the equivalent of a cold shower for later situations. He walked into the kitchen as Mycroft took a seat and Mrs. Hudson went back downstairs,

'I am here because I have last minute instruction to give to you from MI6. Sherlock should've told you I was coming," Mycroft said, turning his stare onto Sherlock as he did his buttons up,

"I tried," Sherlock said and in the kitchen John chocked on his coffee (all the tea bags were currently floating in hydrochloric acid)

"Ah. I see," Mycroft said and John walked into the lounge room, still as red as ever. Sherlock tugged him down onto the couch and Mycroft shook his head,

"So, what's the message?" Sherlock wrapped an arm around John's waist and John felt the embarrassment fade. Who gave a damn about what anyone else thought, anyway?

"You have to be convincing," Mycroft said, but, John figured, by the look on his face he had no doubts about them being convincing,

"Obviously," Sherlock said,

'No, Howell will be watching you,"

'What?"

"We had Moriarty's contact send out a message to Howell to keep track of you, John," Mycroft said and John had to stop himself from showing any reaction as Sherlock actually pulled him closer – completely subconsciously – which was a move that made John's heart swell with love to the point to bursting. Cheesy as it sounds.

"Fine," Sherlock said, "Now go," He added and Mycroft got to his feet,

"Welcoming as ever, Sherlock," John made to get up, but Sherlock physically held him down as Mycroft walked out,

"Where were we?" Sherlock asked and John had a feeling that this time, there weren't going to be any interruptions.

* * *

**Nehehe.**

**Yes. I'm loving this. Urgh. Holiday's officially start tomorrow, for me, because I've been at school for the past two days, as I have to rehearse for my school musical.**

**YAY! REAL HOLIDAYS!**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	17. Come to the land downunder

**Here we go guys. Onward and south!**

* * *

**Chapter 17**

0010

Heathrow Airport

London, England,

United Kingdom

The four agents caught the same cab to Heathrow and, now, as the boarding call for first class went out, they were going to split up for the first time on assignment. John knew he wouldn't see Lestrade and Sally for about another week and strangely, that made him feel like there wasn't something quite right, but he pushed it aside,

"Good luck," he said, shaking Lestrade's hand and giving Sally a quick hug,

"Same to you," Lestrade said,

"You'd better come back to us in one piece," Sally said and John nodded, smiling,

'I will,"

'See you then," Sherlock said, shaking Lestrade's hand and allowing Sally to give him a hug.

"Yeah. Have fun in first class,' Lestrade said, sounding fairly envious as both he and Sally were stuck in economy,

'We will," John said, grinning and looking quite mischievous as the green eyes lit up.

The two of them walked to the counter and handed their tickets over to the assistant who slid it through and pointed to the door,

'Through there, sirs," She said and they both nodded before walking into the aerobridge.

'We're actually doing this?" John asked and Sherlock nodded,

'Yes, my dear doctor,' he said,

"Remember, it's my dear millionaire now," John chuckled as Sherlock shot him a glare,

"Thank god this is only going to last for a week,'

"Oh shut up," John said, but he was smiling and he could've swore heard an 'awww' from behind them, but didn't turn around to see who it was.

They finally reached the plane and were directed to the left, through curtains and into completely luxury.

"Wow," John said, almost stopping dead,

"Keep moving," Sherlock said, pushing him to get him to move. They had seats that faced each other on the left hand side of the plane, a window in between them and a whole lot of space that sort of sealed them away from the rest of everyone else, as the seats had a screen that could be pulled forward. John also noticed, with pleasure, that they were leather and looked very, very comfy.

Sherlock flicked the overhead locker open and pushed his bag in before turning to the left to watch John do the same, if not with a bit of a stretch. Sherlock smiled and when John finally managed to get the bag in and turned around to see Sherlock smiling, he huffed,

'You could at least help," he said and Sherlock walked over,

'Too tall for you, Major?" he asked and John rolled his eyes,

'Your jokes have no effect, you arse,"

"Really?"

* * *

While the two of them kept at it, the boarding call for economy echoed over the speakers and the rest of the lounge – the majority of the passengers – got to their feet, including Lestrade and Sally,

'Are we ready for this?"

'I don't think we're given much of a choice, Greg," Sally said and the DI nodded,

'Still don't know why I signed up for this," he muttered.

Their tickets were stamped and they were ushered through to the aerobridge. Sally was glad that she only had her handbag with her because she didn't particularly like having to carry so much extra luggage around. As they filed into the plane, from the left Sally chuckled as a raised voice that could only be John's floated through the curtain,

'They're at it again," Lestrade said, turning to Sally,

"Surprise, surprise," she said, as they were directed right,

"You know…" Lestrade looked up at the numbers and had to step over a child who decided to throw a tantrum right in the middle of the aisle,

"What?" Sally asked as they continued along to get to their seats, somewhere near the back of the plane – trust Stone to get them the worst seats –

"You think they should get married?" Lestrade asked, as they finally did reach their seats, and he hefted his two bags into the overhead locker,

"They are," Sally said, ducking underneath her boss' outstretched arms,

"I mean afterwards. Properly," Lestrade let out a huff of air as he finally got the bags in and closed the locker,

"What with the whole dress thing?"

"Please don't talk about men in dresses," Lestrade said, his own little excursion with John in a cocktail dress and high heels still too fresh in his mind. Sally had to contain her laughter as she remembered the sight of her boss, the respected DI Lestrade, in a red cocktail dress.

"Sorry," Sally said and he gave her a suspicious look as she hid her smile, "The whole suits and flowers and"

"Yeah, the whole affair," Lestrade cut her off before she could slip in another reference to dresses and Sally shrugged,

'Well, it wouldn't take much persuasion," she said and Lestrade nodded,

'Hmmm… true that," he said, picking a magazine out of its pocket behind the chair and settled himself in for a long – and judging by the noise of the small family in front of him – noisy flight.

* * *

23:24

Somewhere above Europe

British Ariways Flight 0111

"I'm sorry." Sherlock said as John still refused to talk to him two hours into the flight. The refrormed sociopath had tried everything to get John to forgive him. He'd even ordered a triple chocolate cake and cookies just for John but it still didn't make the doctor talk to the detective. Sherlock Holmes, at his best times, never sat still. He couldn't and wouldn't. He didn't like it. Sitting on a plane for sixteen hours was one thing. Sitting on a plane with a hostile John opposite him was torture.

Okay, yes, he had taken the teasing a little too far by asking how John had ever managed in Afghanistan if he couldn't see over the dunes. But it was a fact. John _was_ shorter than the average man. Although, Sherlock thought as he watched John tilt the seat back and close his eyes, he should probably know by now that people don't like being told obvious facts.

Sherlock needed help. Getting to his feet as quietly as possible, Sherlock turned around and made his way through the curtain, hoping that the finely tailored quality of his suit which did actually appear to shimmer with a lustre, didn't catch anybody's attention in business and economy. Sherlock walked down the aisles with as much purpose as possible and kept walking when he reached economy. Keeping his eyes open, Sherlock walked a little slower, past families with kids and lone travellers, one of which he was sure was going to see her boyfriend of ten years.

Deleting this unnecessary information, Sherlock continued on down, and finally, at the back of the plane, found who he was looking for – a snoring Lestrade and an irritated Sally. "Sally," Sherlock walked up to her and she looked up in surprise,

'Sherlock! What are you doing here?" she asked, worried that maybe Howell was watching them,

"I need help," Sherlock said, with all the seriousness of a man who was diffusing a bomb,

'What happened?" Sally asked, worried now,

"Well…" Sherlock looked around them as if there were eavesdroppers everywhere,

"I pissed John off," he finally said and Sally dropped her head into her hands,

"Sherlock!" she breathed, thoughts of possible hijackings or deaths evaporating. Only Sherlock Holmes would have no idea how to deal with an irate spouse.

"Sherlock, you go to him, get down on your knees and-"

"On a plane?" Sherlock asked, genuinely confused and Sally took a couple of seconds more to understand what Sherlock was getting at,

"NO!" the mother in front of her, who had finally managed to get her baby asleep turned around with a glare and Sally smiled weakly at her.

The sergeant turned back to Sherlock, "Not that way," she whispered and before the detective could open his mouth she continued, "Get down on your knees and beg for forgiveness."

"Beg?" Sherlock asked. That was one thing he hadn't tried yet. _Hmmm…interesting. I missed the most obvious one out of all. I'll need to do a little research when I get home._

With a quick thankyou to Sally, he turned around and walked back down the aisle, his pace increased slightly. He all but jumped back into first class and walked over to where John was sleeping. He placed both his arms on the armrests and looked down at John. The doctor's eyelashes – died black – fluttered slightly and Sherlock knew the man was awake,' "John," he said, keeping his voice incredibly low, in the timbre that he knew would catch the doctor's attention,

"Please open your eyes," Sherlock said and, for the first time in two hours, fourteen minutes, and twenty four seconds, John responded to what Sherlock said. He did open his eyes to be greeted with the mercury eyes of his partner.

"Sh-Sherlock," he said,

"John," Sherlock said, tilting his head to one side, and then, much to John astonishment, Sherlock go to his knees, but kept his hands on the armrests "I'm sorry," Sherlock said, widening his eyes just a bit and lowering his voice again.

"Really?" John felt proud of himself. He'd managed the word without stuttering.

"Yes, John," Sherlock said, and John figured that could've passed for a growl.

"Good, do you want to seal that with a kiss?" John asked, smiling as Sherlock realised he had been played.

The detective leapt of his knees as John's wonderful laughter echoed around the room. Sherlock tried to keep the straight face as John kept laughing but found it impossible and started laughing as well, collapsing into his chair with a contented sigh. John got up and fell into Sherlock's lap, not particularly caring that they were getting a rather odd look from the man sitting across from them – the only other passenger in first class.

'You really thought that I was angry over something like that?" John asked, as Sherlock wrapped his arms around the doctor's waist and buried his face into the crook of John neck,

"Yes," Sherlock said, the word coming out petulant and muffled. John laughed again, placing his hands on Sherlock's arms,

'Silly detective," he said, laying his head against Sherlock's collar bone, looking up into Sherlock's eyes,

"Ridiculous doctor," Sherlock muttered back, but the smile on the corner of his lips betrayed his real feelings.

* * *

0400

British Airways flight 0111

Kuala Lumpur International Airport

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia.

Falling asleep on a plane and with half your body slumped out of a chair, Lestrade decided, was _not_ a good way to sleep. "Ow," Lestrade moaned as he got up and the plane finally stopped, pulling up at Kuala Lumpur International Airport.

"Serves you right." Sally said, watching as the family in front of them savagely pulled their bags out of the top locker,

"Are we going out?" Lestrade asked, looking at the fog that hung outside and really not wanting to leave the warm cabin,

"Do you want to?"

"No, Not really," Lestrade,

"Hmmm," Sally replied, before leaning forward and pulling out a woman's magazine. Lestrade sighed and leant back, closing his eyes. No time like the present for some sleep.

* * *

In first class, John was shaken awake by a smiling air-hostess, "Would you like a drink, sir?" she asked as John's senses returned and he realised why the chair appeared to be breathing – he was still on Sherlock.

"Uh, no," he said, finally remembering how to speak. She nodded and walked off again. John turned around to see that Sherlock's eyes were open and watching him, "So, what are we going to do now?' John asked,

'We're here for the next three hours," Sherlock said,

"Right,' John got to his feet a little unsteadily and pulled Sherlock up with him as well.

"Where are we going?" Sherlock asked and John didn't reply,

"We'll be back in time, don't worry, just keep the tickets."

Sherlock checked his inside jacket pocket to find that the tickets were still in there and he allowed John to lead him off the plane.

* * *

Three hours later the plane was ready for takeoff and Sherlock and John returned, both bearing bags of random items them decided to buy – including, much to John's irritation, a new butchers knife. How Sherlock intended to get it past customs, the doctor couldn't quite fathom. "Sherlock, I swear, if we get detained because of you-"

"I know, I know," Sherlock interrupted as they walked back to their seats to find a plate of steaming food waiting for them and another hostess laying the table,

"Your food," she said and John smiled at her,

"Thank you," he said, and she walked off, "Mmm, fish," the doctor said, dropping the bags to the floor and falling into his seat,

"I don't like fish," Sherlock said, staring at the plate,

'Live with it Sherlock," John said, already finished with a quarter of the meal. Sherlock stabbed the fish and wished they could get off the plane.

* * *

0713

Melbourne International Airport

Melbourne, Victoria

Australia

The sun was blazing down as the plane pulled up at Melbourne International airport and John stared out the window at the fact that the tarmac seemed to be shimmering not far away,

'I thought summer was coming to a close?" he asked as the pilot announced overhead that it was 35 degrees outside and that there was no chance of rain,

"It is," Sherlock said, getting to his feet and getting both their bags down, to save himself from another fight about height.

Knowing that they would be allowed out first, Sherlock and John carried their bags out of the plane and into the aerobridge.

"Melbourne, right?" John asked, looking around as they walking into the terminal.

"Yep." Sherlock looked around, "We're staying at the Grand Hyatt," he said and John nodded,

"C'mon," he led the way forward and Sherlock found he really wanted to get to their hotel - there would be things to do at the hotel.

* * *

**Okay. Slightly new format of writing because we've entered the MI6 stage of the story. When ever the team reaches a new location, the time is given, followed by the place, then the city and state followed by the nation. You know. James Bon style. :D**

**Pwease Weview?**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	18. Prejudice and hurt

**Ohmigosh! (That's a new word. Really.) Thanks so much for the constant support **

***Blushes***

**Love you all!**

* * *

**Chapter 18**

0819

Grand Hyatt Hotel

Collins Street, Melbourne

VIC, Australia

"Right this way, sirs, you're here on your honeymoon?" John couldn't help but notice the strained smile on the attendants face as she led them to the elevator and the way she seemed to actually shy away from their presence. He exchanged a glance with Sherlock, who, John noticed, had that 'I-don't-care-if-you-insult-me-but-if-you-dare-to-hurt-John-I-will-kill-you' expression. John also knew that he needed a new name for that expression.

"Sherlock," he said, laying a hand on his elbow, the touch so light that Sherlock almost didn't notice it. Almost. Because Sherlock wasn't one who didn't notice things.

He turned his head to look at the doctor who shook his head ever so slightly as the elevator pinged for them to enter. The attendant smiled again and John wished she wouldn't keep up the pretence,

"Enjoy your stay, sirs," she said, and sprang back from them as they entered, and Sherlock could tell that all she wanted to do was to get as far away from them as possible, 'It's the tenth floor, room number five hundred and thirty three. Here's the pass card,"

The door shut behind her and Sherlock turned to John, "I could've dealt with her,"

"There was no need," John said, staring at a spot on the wall. He should've expected this, really. In England they were never really obvious about their relationship, which seems to be the reason why they never received any behaviour like this. Everyone who knew kept it to themselves and didn't have a problem with it at all. But then, John thought, they were their friends.

"John," Sherlock put a hand on the doctor's shoulder, but John didn't take his eyes of the panel with all the buttons on it, as they approached the tenth floor, and the elevator stopped. Still not meeting Sherlock's eyes and not entirely sure why something he _knew_ would happen was hurting this much, John walked out of the lift closely followed by Sherlock.

* * *

0811

Terminal 5

Melbourne International Airport

VIC, Australia.

Back at the airport, Lestrade was hauling his and Sally's bag off the conveyor belt and he sighed. Sherlock and John had their bags delivered to them. They didn't need to wait in line for their bags as first class passengers. Plus, Lestrade figured, they got off the plane so early; they were probably at the Hotel by now. _In the Penthouse suite, dam them._

'Want some help?" Sally asked, standing behind Lestrade with her arms crossed,

'I'm fine," Lestrade said, through gritted teeth and Sally rolled her eyes,

'There's really no need to be 'macho man'" she said and Lestrade could've growled at her, but he was currently using all his energy on getting the bags onto the rather dodgy trolleys,

"Are you sure you don't need any help?" Sally rolled her eyes as she was ignored and watched as Lestrade hefted the bags.

Usually, Sally never packed that heavy. However, this time was an exception. They need weapons and the British government was being decidedly stubborn about using Australian weapons and insisted that their initiate agents take some of the British issue weapons. Sherlock had immediately pointed out that if he and John started shooting with British issue weapons, questions would be raised, so Stone bought two of the newest, and latest guns – they hadn't even been handed out yet. He said that no one would even know that it was British issue and even Sherlock couldn't find a problem with that.

"Greg," Sally tried as he reached for the second bag, but was, once again, ignored, "Boss?" she said and this time, he put down the heavy bag and looked to her,

'Let me do it," stepping forward, Sally reached down, and, much to Lestrade's amazement, she hefted it onto the trolley within a couple of seconds.

"See?" She asked, barely panting as she watched her boss pant and puff,

"Anyone could do that," Lestrade said, staring at the bag as if it was its fault for being so heavy,

"Like you?" Sally asked and received a withering glare, which, once upon a time, she would've run away from. Now, though, she knew that it was just Lestrade being Lestrade. And ever since his wife's death, these moments were incredibly rare and Sally found herself cherishing every one.

"C'mon," Sally said, pressing the handle down and getting the trolley moving. Lestrade fell into step next to Sally and they pushed their way through the crowds of people trying to get their baggage and went onto customs,

_Great_ Thought Lestrade, _More time to waste. Joy._

* * *

0822

Grand Hyatt Hotel

Collins Street, Melbourne

VIC, Australia

John opened the door of the hotel with the key card to find their bags waiting next to the door. "John," Sherlock grabbed the doctor's upper arm as the door banged shut behind them, swinging John around to face him, and making the doctor look up to meet Sherlock's eyes, the green flaring brightly. But Sherlock suddenly felt completely out of his depth as he saw the tears. John looked away as Sherlock registered this and ripped his arm away from Sherlock as he went to the bed and sat down on it, facing the huge, curtained windows that looked over a waking city, the sun peeking up behind some buildings.

Sherlock swallowed and stood rooted to the spot. How was he supposed to react to this? Was he meant to comfort John? Dammit. Where was Sally when you needed her?

John tried to calm his breathing as fears that had been there since the beginning of this slightly mad relationship threatened to resurrect themselves, and he didn't react as Sherlock sat down next to him, or when one arm went around his waist. He did, however, react when, as another sob went through his body, Sherlock pulled him close. John curled up on Sherlock's lap like a little child and wrapped his arms around the slim frame.

He didn't even know _why_ he was crying. Or why this would bring it on…but then again…he did. Sort of.

They sat in silence for a while as John's breathing steadied and Sherlock started putting facts together, even as he told himself that this was going to annoy John. They had been in a relationship for over five months now. They had even skipped Christmas with their families to spend it with each other…and then it clicked.

Sherlock drew John closed and put his chin on John's head, smelling the shampoo that John loved and took a deep breath, "You haven't told your dad or Harry about us yet, have you?" Sherlock asked, and John made a small sound. Sherlock cursed himself. He had been so blind. How could he have not seen this?

Every time Sherlock so much as mentioned bringing John's dad over, because he _really _wanted to meet John's dad (he was still trying to come up with an acceptable reason but was failing. He just wanted to meet the man who helped John become the amazing man he was), John had all but bolted from the room. Of course, Sherlock had managed to not notice this. _Idiot,_ Sherlock thought.

"Why haven't you told him?" Sherlock asked and John pushed the detective away, a spark of anger flaring up,

'Why do you think, Sherlock?" John knew his voice was louder than necessary, but Sherlock didn't even flinch,

"John,"

"NO!" the doctor spun away from the detective before finished his sentence, "No, don't tell me he won't care either way,"

'John, he's your father," Sherlock said, still not fully comprehending what John was trying to say. Sherlock's father had always been kind. If Sherlock told him that he wanted to fly to the moon, his father would encourage him, right along with his mother…but, maybe John's parents were different? Sherlock didn't know and once again, he cursed his lack of knowledge of people.

He could tell you exactly how a man died and lived, but he couldn't say he knew what John had experienced.

"Dad kicked Harry out when she told him," John said, turning to look back at Sherlock, "She was sixteen. It's now that he finally talks to her."

Sherlock got to his feet as John went to the window, fear coursing through him at even _thought_ about approaching his father. Always, John had made him proud. Always, it was John who brought them honour and respect in the quietly religious town they came from. If they ever found out…

Strong arms encircled John's waist in the way he loved and warm breath ghosted across his neck, "Sherlock…" John breathed, his breath fogging up the glass, cold so high up, the winds that were quite pleasant down below, positively vicious in comparison up here.

"We'll deal with it, John," Sherlock said, staring at John's eyes in their reflection,

'Will we, Sherlock?" John asked as he felt Sherlock stiffen and felt like slapping himself,

"Do you believe in this?" Sherlock asked,

"Yes," the word came out as a whisper,

"Do you believe that I love you?" Sherlock asked and again, John found himself nodding, his heart swelling as the words 'I love you' registered,

"Then believe that we can get through anything," Sherlock said, not sure where these words were coming from. But as John finally relaxed back into his arms, Sherlock knew that they were what he believed in. And always would.

* * *

**It's Short. I know. SORRY! But with Easter and everything…you know. There was no bloody time.**

**And School's starting on Tuesday…So I'll try and update at least once a week. Minimum. Who knows? You might get more…**

**If my stupid, dumb computer doesn't crash on me. :)**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	19. Holiday, remember?

**OMG. I'm so sorry it too so long. Explanation down the bottom. I'll shut up now. Go on. Read. :D**

* * *

**Chapter 19**

0845

Room no. 110

Sofitel Hotel

Melbourne CBD, VIC

"Don't you think we should use our cover names?" Lestrade asked,

"Yeah, probably," Sally cracked a grin and the DI found himself responding with a small smile.

The new MI6 agents had been put into one of the cheaper rooms at the Sofitel Hotel and Lestrade was unbelievably glad that they were posing and brother and sister. He was, most definitely, not ready for the need to act as a newly married couple. Thank god for small mercies.

He stared out of the window as the light reflected off Eureka, the gold at the top of the tallest building catching the morning light and reflecting in every direction, blinding anyone silly enough to look at it. Greg smiled as he thought about how much Juli would've loved to be here. To stare out at the city below and not worry whether or not he was going to come home that evening. The DI stoped those thoughts there.

Because he knew where they were going to lead – straight to one doctor who seemed to be on his mind a lot lately. Whether he liked it or not. He grimaced as he shifted in his chair and then jumped as Sally spoke,

"Sorry, didn't mean to make you jump," she smiled softly, and Lestrade looked up into her dark eyes. It was obvious that she thought she knew what he had been thinking about. _Well, she's partially right, _Lestrade thought, as Sally continued, "Do you want to use the shower first or shall I?" she asked,

'You go," Lestrade said and Sally nodded,

'Okay. I won't be long," with that she turned around and headed towards the shower,

'Don't use all the hot water!" Lestrade called out half-heartedly, but the pitying smile was still on Sally's face and Lestrade knew he hated that it was directed at him, but he returned it, despite what he was feeling.

The bathroom door shut with an echo and left Lestrade to his thoughts.

* * *

1047

Melbourne Streets

Melbourne CBD

VIC Australia

The need to call each other by their undercover names pissed John off more that it should've but he hated the way the name _Pierre_ rolled of Sherlock's tongue. To him it just sounded like Sherlock had said it too many times before to someone else. The doctor _told_ himself that it was his stupid imagination and that Sherlock was an excellent actor, but John could not make himself feel any better over that.

"Pierre?" John managed to smile convincingly,

"Yeah?" he asked as they continued their walk down the street from their hotel.

Sherlock sighed as John looked away from him and to the towering buildings to their left. He knew the doctor hated their cover names, but there was nothing that could be done about it. Sherlock let his gaze wander further and realised that it wasn't the smartest idea he ever had.

John had chosen to wear a black T-shirt that was not tight, but showed his figure off far too much for Sherlock's liking and the jeans…the detective had to remind himself they were in public every time he thought about John's Dark Blue Jeans. Capital letters completely necessary, even in his head. The Dark Blue Jeans were sinfully tight. _Dear God, why'd I let him out of the Hotel in those?_ Sherlock asked,

"You were going to say something?" John asked, turning his green eye back towards Sherlock, watching as they snapped up from examination of what he was sure was his legs,

"Yeah," Sherlock said, noticing the slight blush of John's cheeks

"Let's catch a tram from the main centre – Flinder's Street Station." The detective said,

"Why?" John asked, suspicious,

"Because, it'll be fun," The sun glinted off Sherlock's metallic shirt and the pale skin beneath that shirt momentarily distracted John before he managed to look up again,

"How do you know that we can catch a tram from there?"

"I heard of it,"

"Heard or researched?" John muttered under his breath and Sherlock dragged John along,

"Don't be dull, Pierre," the detective said, "Of course I researched it," Without waiting for any further protests from the doctor, Sherlock ran across the busy road and John was sure that if the madman kept this up, one of them was going to get hurt.

_Why did I marry him? _

John thought, before that little, annoying voice in his head replied,

_You didn't._

John grimaced and, next to him Sherlock laughed, the sound so open John forgot his internal argument as he watched the detective's face light up,

'Don't worry Pierre," Sherlock paused, his eyes glinted as he surveyed the man standing next to him, lingering on the way the jeans revealed the muscles beneath, "I won't get us killed," John returned the grin and let Sherlock pull him along.

_Shut up…I might one day…What?_

The doctor rolled his eyes as his own thoughts, briefly wondered for his sanity, before letting the adrenaline of running take over.

* * *

1155

Tram to St. Kilda

Melbourne

VIC Australia

They were on their way to St. Kilda and John didn't even know where that was. Sherlock did. He had his phone out and was tracking their movement,

"Bob," John said, watching as the dot that was their decidedly shiny tram was taking "Are you even paying attention to me?" John asked as Sherlock continued to stare at the phone. Again, he received no answer. _Right. He wants to ignore me now, does he? _John tried not to allow the wicked grin onto his face as he turned to Sherlock,

"Bob?" he asked, and then, hoping that the only other occupant on the tram was not watching them, he leaned over slight and allowed one hand to rest on Sherlock's thigh.

Sherlock tensed and John couldn't stop the smile as Sherlock looked up,

"Pierre," Sherlock said, hoping that John would resume his irritated pose at the use of the name but was disappointed as the green eyes shone with amusement,

'Yes, Bob?"  
"Stop calling me that," Sherlock said, keeping his voice low,

"Why?"

_Somehow,_ the detective thought, _he manages to look adorable even when there nothing cute about what he was doing. At least, in the infantile sense, at any rate._

"You will respond to the name won't you?" John asked, whispering in Sherlock ear and running a hand up the leg, the fingers so light Sherlock actually bit his tongue to keep any sound from coming out. This wasn't the most appropriate place for that.

John ran his hand back down the jean-clad thigh, the hard muscle beneath tensing before relaxing and Sherlock had a feeling that his heart was about to give way at the proximity. The detective nodded as he believed his voice would crack if he said anything. At thirty-four, that was not acceptable.

"Good," John whispered, "I might have decided that I would show my own little protest against the name when we got back to the hotel by-"

"Please don't complete that sentence," Sherlock said, trying to keep his tone light and failing quite miserably.

It was John who needed to pause this time as the deep tones of Sherlock's voice washed over him, leaving him momentarily stunned. _Who would've known? _John thought dryly, _that one day Sherlock's voice would be enough to make me forget where I am?_

"Why not?" The doctor finally managed to form coherent words, still below what could be considered a whisper,

"Because, two can play at that game," Sherlock said, his eyes locking onto green orbs that glowed with both desire and amusement.

Several moments past and both of them jumped when the driver announced that it was the last stop – St. Kilda beach.

"Beach?" John asked, as he led the way off the tram, blinking and telling his mind that now was _not_ the time for any reactions thanks to Sherlock.

The detective followed behind him, and as they stood at the stop, he wrapped one arm around John's waist for the first time since they'd ever been together,

"Sh-Bob?" John exclaimed, remembering the cover name as he turned around in surprise,

"Married, remember?" Sherlock had a smug smile plastered across his face at the scandalous looks they were getting from the women across the street – who, seconds ago had been eyeing John up in his Dark Blue Jeans.

"I can't see you living a domestic life," John said and wondered when his brain had given the command to talk.

_Yes I can! With ME! _

The doctor watched as Sherlock gave him a narrow look through the eyelashes,

"Why not?"

"I…" John faded off, "want some ice-cream?" he winced at the anything but smooth topic change as the light to cross went green and this time John led the way across, a curious detective in tow.

* * *

Federation Square

Outside Flinders Street Station

Melbourne CBD

VIC, Australia

Sitting on the steps of Federation Square, Lestrade soaked up the warmth that flooded the tiled area. He sighed as he laid back and was about to drift off for a quick nap when a shadow fell over him,

"Oi!" he said opening his eyes to see Sally standing over him, holding a light green dress,

'What do you think?" she asked, and Lestrade had to squint against the sun to get a good look,

"Good," With that he closed his eyes again and hid a smile that wanted to show itself as he heard a sigh,

"Any other words?" Sally asked and he shook his head, smiling slightly,

"Nope," He was about to add that he was useless when it came to shopping when he jumped as his back pocket vibrated,

"Hello?" he asked, almost dropping the phone as he pressed answer. Sally had to stifle a laugh as Lestrade talked,

"Hey," Lestrade would've known that voice anywhere,

'John?" he asked,

"Yeah,"

Before leaving, they had decided if there was any contact between them, they would use their real names – except for Sherlock, because really, how common was that name? He was called James. So that if anyone managed to listen to a mobile phone's call, they would think it was a fake name,

"What are you currently doing?" John asked,

"Sitting and watching as Sally tries to figure out what to wear and which dress would look good," John laughed, "They all look the same to me,' Lestrade added, and there was a thump on the other end of the line. Sherlock's voice spoke next.

"We're at St. Kilda Beach," he said matter-of-factly, "We'll see you in two hours?"

"What, why?" Lestrade tried to keep the panic out of his voice,

'Because. We're on holiday, remember?"

"But-"

'Greg," Sherlock's tone was one of a whiny child and Lestrade had to admit, he had always wanted a kid. Damn Sherlock for knowing exactly how to convince him,

"Okay," he replied, trying to look innocent as Sally almost bounced on the spot, wanting to speak to them, and he battled with images of John wearing nothing but budgie smugglers – he'd heard that term on the news. Something to do with a politician and it got stuck in his head – he was entirely sure that the rest of the world knew them as Speedo trunks. They left nothing to the imagination.

"I'll see you there," Lestrade ended the call and looked up at Sally,

"Well?"

"We're going to the beach,"

"Really?" The shine in her eyes was worrying.

"Yes," He answered, stretching the word out as if he needed her to understand,

"Did you remember your swimmers?"

"No," Lestrade had a feeling where this was going and as Sally said the next words, he knew he was in trouble,

"We have to get you some swimmers!" she exclaimed, grabbing his hand and dragging him towards the trams, completely ignoring the way that he was, in fact being dragged which spelt out, quite clearly, his reluctance. Two police officers who were watching chuckled as he was manhandled across the road.

* * *

Swimming and Diving Shop

St. Kilda Foreshore

Melbourne

VIC Australia

At St. Kilda beach, much the same was being done to John with an overly excited Sherlock and a pair of board shorts that were so loose John wondered whether they'd stay on in the water. He didn't even want to go swimming. That was why he joined the army. Not the navy.

"Bob," he said, whining slightly,

"Yes, my dear Pierre?" Sherlock grinned wickedly from his bent over position to look up at John who was leaning exasperated against one of the stands. He promptly swore as said stand almost toppled over and it took his army reflexes to grab it and right it before he was left paying the bill. Although, the bill wouldn't even put a dent in the money he had, according to his bank accounts.

_Still, _John thought as Sherlock pulled out a bright red pair of board shorts, with white streaks on the side and thrust it towards him, _I would much rather keep that money for…well…something else. Like my lover blowing up the bedroom when he gets bored at the hotel, which he will do, I am sure. _John had to allow himself a small smile even as Sherlock demanded he 'take his pants of right now or face the consequences' much to the horrified glance of the shop assistant, able to be seen over the top of the change cubicle.

* * *

Presidential Suite,

Sofitel Hotel

Melbourne CBD

VIC Australia

Not too far away, as the sun blasted the earth and people flocked to the nearest place that would cool them down – the beach or icehouse, the greatest skating rink – one man sat in the Sofitel Hotel's presidential suite – after all, he owned the thing – and stared at the beautiful, bustling city below.

"When did they arrive?" he asked, allowing his hand to rest on the girl sleeping next to him, his light brown hair still spiked despite his recent activities, his bright blue eyes glowing at the thought of more money and more fame in the underworld,

"This morning, sir," was the prompt reply on the other end,

"Oh good…" He reached over to take a drink from the wine glass that sat on the bedside table, the silver ring with a sword carved into it in intricate detail catching the light and flashing in the golden sun,

"Mr. Howell sir?" the tentative voice came from the other end,

"Yes?"

"He's a gambler sir," A wolf's smile spread across Howell's face as he considered all the possibilities.

For years now, he had been trying to get his hooks into the British market, and now, one billionaire, a certain Pierre Mannu was his ticket to that market. Victory could not be much better – especially if this Mannu was made to suffer for it. Nothing like a bit of grovelling and pleading to cheer you up, he always thought.

The underworld king took another drink.

"Good," Howell's reply finally came and sneered in disgust as a sigh of relief came through the phone. The way these people grovelled made him feel slightly sick,

"Will you approach them sir?"

"No. A gambler with that much money is bound to know about the high rollers game at Crown. I will see him there," Howell hang up without any further words and the girl on his chest woke up.

Sapphire eyes shone at him, "Stewart?" she mumbled, black hair falling into place,

"Shut up," he said, pushing her off him as he got out of bed,

"But-"

"I have more important things to think of. I also have a meeting," He didn't even bother to turn around and talk to her. He should've really. He should've seen the loathing in her eyes. And He should've seen the way that she stared at the bread knife on the table and then back to him.

Being the arrogant bastard he was, that didn't happen.

* * *

**BUGGER FANFICTION! It wouldn't let me update! I couldn't bloody upload anything and – GAH! – It's driving me friken bonkers!**

**GAH! *screams at wall***

**Better now. Apologies for leaving you so long. Bit longer than normal, though, yeah? Made up for it?**

***Big, puppy dog eyes***

**Love you guys,**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	20. Pictures and Posters

**I know this is one of my shortest chapters yet. And that the gap between chapters is HUGE. AND I'M SO SORRY!**

**Between school and home I've had just about no time thanks to exams and assignments. But Holidays are coming up! And there's hope for better chapters!**

**SORRY! and Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 20**

St. Kilda beach

St Kilda

Melbourne

VIC Australia

"Where are they?" Lestrade asked as he walked off the tram, closely followed by Sally who tripped over herself as she scrambled to get off the tram,

"They'll be around," Sally replied, soaking in the warmth that radiated of the very ground they stood on.

"That's a brilliant description, that," Lestrade said, scowling slightly and Sally laughed,

"Why are you so grumpy?" she asked, pulling him across the road as the light changed to green,

"Because…" the only way that Lestrade managed to keep the whine out of his voice was reminding himself that it was the most annoying bit about working with Sherlock – it was like working next to a five year old. Lestrade wondered whether John ever made that comparison. After all, he was _living_ with the man. Lestrade had no idea how John did it. He must really have the deposition of a saint.

"IF YOU MAKE ME WEAR THIS, I WILL PERSONALLY MAKE EVERYDAY OF YOUR LIFE _WORSE _THAN MYCROFT EVER COULD!" The raised voice caught both Sally and Lestrade's attention and they spun around to see shirtless John with a towel wrapped around his waist and – much to Sally and Lestrade's great shock – a laughing Sherlock Holmes. Not just a sneering or chuckling Sherlock – an actual, genuine, carefree and _normal_ Sherlock hanging onto the railing for support as a furious but somewhat amused John stood there yelling at him, red in the face and all but breathing fire. Lestrade's mouth fell open at the sight while Sally was tempted to actually look for her camera as they both stood transfixed, watching the scene.

"J-Pierre-Pierre," the consulting detective couldn't get a clear word out to save his life,

"Don't even try and charm your way out of this situation," John said, huffing and leaning against the railing, ignoring the heat as it spread through the towel and warmed his back as the sun blazed down on him. He sighed and let his gaze fall onto the tram stop to see Lestrade and Sally walking towards him. He had to resist the urge to run towards Sally and beg her to knock some sense into Sherlock, because he had a niggling feeling that once she actually saw what he was wearing, she would insist that he keep it on, and then convince Lestrade to side with her as well,

"Fancy seeing you here!" Sally said, smiling as John uncrossed his arms to welcome her,

"Same thing I could've said about you," John said, accepting her hug as Sherlock composed himself enough to receive a hug from Sally,

"You're looking awfully chipper," Lestrade said, grinning - somewhat maliciously in John's opinion - at the doctor,

"And you're look ridiculously overdressed for the beach," John said, looking Lestrade up and down, making the inspector flush under his gaze,

"Yeah well-"

"I got him a new pair of swimmers!" Sally cut in, looking excited,

"Really? I got Pierre a new pair too!" Sherlock said and John wondered when his…boyfriend? He winced a little at the word but that was what Sherlock was – he wondered when his boyfriend had turned into such a girl.

"Take the towel off, dear," Sherlock said, managing to keep a straight face. John had to admire his skill,

"No,"

"Please?" and then Sherlock brought out the puppy dog eyes. God save the world from those puppy dog eyes.

"No," John said, and Lestrade's jaw dropped open. John could say no to those eyes? Sherlock frowned,

"If Mitch permits himself to be embarrassed, will you?" Sally asked and the Inspector bristled,

"HEY!"

"Well we didn't buy them to keep them hidden under a suit," Sally said, "Go on, take the suit off,"

"Here?" Lestrade asked, fixing an incredulous stare on Sally and watching from the corner of his eye as John raised an eyebrow,

"I will if he will," John said, feeling like he was in the middle of army initiation. Lestrade turned to him,

"No!"

"It can't be worse than what Bob made me wear," John said,

"Trust me, it can," Lestrade replied and John laughed,

'Worse than the dress?" Lestrade turned a shade redder as Sally chortled,

"Shut up," Lestrade mumbled, and John laughed again before sighing at Sally and Sherlock's expectants gazes,

"On the count of three?" he asked, resigned to his fate,

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Lestrade muttered as Sally clapped her hands,

"Pictures!" she said and John looked at her,

"You know, technically, we're not even meant to be spending time together,"

"These are on a private camera," Sally waved a dismissive hand,

"No such thing as private in this business," Sherlock cut in before Lestrade could say anything, but just as relief flooded Lestrade the detective added, "but who cares?"

Dreading his every move, Lestrade removed the tie around his neck and threw it at Sally, pulling his shirt out of his pants and removing the jacket, swiftly taken by Sally. John watched his through narrowed eyes as he unbuttoned the cuffs of his sleeves and pulled off his socks and shoes. Sometimes, the DI wished that life could be easier. Then he reminded himself that his luck meant that wouldn't happen any time soon.

* * *

Sofitel Hotel

Presidential Suite

Melbourne CBD

Victoria, Australia

"You need to get the news out, and you need to make it fast, we don't know how long he'll be staying here," Howell said, his smooth voice sounding ice cold as he gave the orders to his 'secretary' who became his bodyguard and lackey at every other moment outside the office,

'Yes sir, I'll get onto it right away,"

"Does that mean three hours from now?" came the cutting remark and the man paused,

"No, it means right now," with that he turned around and walked out. Howell smiled as he kicked his feet up on the table. It was nice to have someone brave enough to walk away from him. If anyone apart from his loyal guard tried it though…well…they would lose more than just their Christmas bonus. The man picked up a grape and chewed thoughtfully on it as he wondered how he much richer a man he was going to become. God, he loved a good scam.

* * *

St. Kilda beach

St Kilda

Melbourne

VIC Australia

The sight of the foreshore of the beach was one to behold and remember should you be fortunate enough to be passing by. A former Detective Inspector and an Army surgeon, standing and looking mortified, in nothing but a pair of Speedo trunks.

"At least it couldn't be any worse,"

"That I'll have to agree on," Lestrade said, as both Sally and Sherlock regained their composure.

'Anyone for a swim, then?" Sherlock asked and Lestrade rolled his eyes,

"I don't see why not," he glanced at John,

"Yeah," The doctor slung his towel over his shoulders and made his way towards the stairs, followed by Lestrade with Sally and Sherlock tailing up the back,

"Not bad work, detective," Sally said and Sherlock turned his head towards her, a faint smile on his lips,

"Could say the same for you, sergeant," he finally gave in and allowed the wolf's grin to spread across his face as the screams of children playing mingled with the taste of the warm summer's-end air.

* * *

Deep in the heart of the city, signs were going up, and the underground world was buzzing. Howell was throwing another high rollers game, the rumours were about, and apparently, there was a new player in town.

Strange how news travelled so quickly.

* * *

**That's all folks. :D For now.**

**I WILL try and get another chapter out before the end of this week. I will. Really.**

**Thanks a million for sticking by and taking the time to read! Love you all to bits!  
**

**Aza  
****xoxo**


	21. Howell spells trouble

**Hello! Yes. Yes. I know. looooooooong time between updates. I'm sorry! I love you all!**

* * *

**Chapter 21**

**Sofitel Hotel**

**Presidential Suite**

**Melbourne CBD**

**Victoria**

Howell yanked on a jacket as the sun set on the western horizon and far below, bustling Melbourne grew rowdier as the crowds spilled in for the night life. He loved Fridays.

Howell turned to see Sophie, her black hair forming a curtain, curling up on the couch and switching the TV on,

"I'm leaving," he said and she turned with a small smile on her face,

'Will you be back soon?" she asked,

"Probably not," Howell fixed his collar and ran a hand through his golden hair, knowing that he didn't need to comb it,

"Okay," Sophie turned back to the TV, bored, irritated and uncaring.

Howell left the suite without a backwards glance and walked towards the elevator, the solid heels of his shoes clinking on the tiled floor beneath him.

Reaching the elevator, the billionaire entered as the doors opened and pressed the button for the ground floor. _Wonder if there's anything vaguely interesting in the casino today?_ He thought idly as the lift descended, and then he chuckled aloud as he remembered the last time something 'vaguely interesting' happened at the Casino. Two deaths and an attempted robbery.

The press had a field day and the casino got so much publicity, his business boomed for an entire month afterwards.

The elevator opened on the ground floor and Howell stepped out – almost running into a slightly shorter-than-average man with blonde hair and blue, blue eyes. Howell was frozen as the man smiled slightly and stepped back,

"Sorry," The English accent was clear, "You go first," Howell blinked stupidly then remembered that he owned the place,

"Thank you," He said, and stalked away without another word.

* * *

John watched Howell depart and shook his head. The shock of coming face to face with the man he was meant to arrest was…well…shocking. The doctor and Sherlock had returned to the Hotel about half an hour ago, and Sherlock wanted some milk – for what, John didn't particularly want to know – so the doctor decided he would go and get it.

He had been feeling a little restless, and it wasn't just because Stone had called and asked how things were going. It was also because Stone had said that the Police picked up rumours about a new poker game, and how there was a new player in town. John had to physically stop himself from shivering when he realised the new player they were talking about was him.

Walking out of the elevator on their floor, John arrived at their room and opened the door and promptly dropped the milk, slamming the door shut behind him, turning the lock, and running over to Sherlock, lying dazed on the floor, white dust around him, and a chair toppled over next to him.

"What the hell happened?" the doctor asked, scanning Sherlock over for injuries, his heart beating faster than he thought possible,

"I dunno," Sherlock sat up, his black curls falling into his eyes, groaning slightly as he his head throbbed. Meanwhile the doctor had a mini panic attack. Sherlock always knows.

"Sherlock?" The doctor turned the detective's face towards him, forgetting completely that they needed to use cover names. The detective stared into John's eyes, as the doctor went through several scenarios. Howell could've come here. He couldn't…maybe…they tried to kill Sherlock? A blow to the head would cause a concussion…

"I think this is why you're not meant to play with wires…" The detective mumbled, stoping John's thoughts in their tracks.

It was an effort not to slap the detective as relief washed through John, "WHAT?" he asked, his voice rising in volume and pitch. Sherlock cringed slightly, and pointed up. John followed the finger and stared at the hole in the ceiling and the wires hanging out of it. John blinked and then collapsed as he realised that being away for five minutes didn't mean that Sherlock would be attacked and almost killed.

"Idiot,' he muttered under his breath, lying back and closing his eyes, allowing his heart to slow down and enjoying the soft feel of the carpet beneath him. He didn't move as Sherlock laid down next to him, and took his hand,

"John," Sherlock said,

"Yes?'

"Sorry,"

There was a quiet sigh as the doctor moved and wrapped his arms around the detective, pulling him close and breathing in the Sherlock-y scent.

* * *

**Outside the Sofitel Hotel**

**Melbourne CBD**

**Victoria**

"He's left the building,' Outside the hotel, in a white van two AFP agents sat and watched as Howell left on foot,

"Copy that," Lestrade's voice sounded over the radio, and the Aussie agents, Mitchell Peterson and James Smith exchanged a glance. The English have very different ways of working to what they did,

"We're tailing him now," Sergeant Donovan's voice informed then and James smiled,

"She's an interesting one,"

"Can you keep you hands of anything that wears a skirt?" Mitch asked, eyeing James dubiously,

" 'corse I can, keep my hands of my wife, don't I?" James gave a wicked grin with Mitch couldn't help but reply with one as well,

'You're disgusting,"

"And you're pathetic. If you got any more devoted to your wife, you'd be building her an altar,"

"Shut up," Mitch shoved him playfully,

"Turning left on Exhibition Street," Sally's voice sounded again,

"Keep following at a distance," Mitch sent the message back out and turned to his partner,

"Want to get an iced coffee?" he asked, and James nodded,

"You go get it…I'm going to stay here…her voice is rather…distracting," Mitch shook his head,

"You're never going to change, are you?"

'Nope," James stretched out and kicked his feet out on the dashboard. Mitch laughed outright this time, as he carefully climbed from the back of the van and onto the road.

This was actually proving to be a remotely fun assignment.

* * *

**Exhibition Street**

**Melbourne CBD**

**Victoria**

Sally sighed, as, for the second time, Howell decided to pull into one of the many stores that they passed.

'What's with the man? He's more inclined to shopping that I am!" she exclaimed, wrenching a magazine of the rack at the random news hub on the street. Lestrade watched her with a bemused expression,

'Don't take it out on the magazine, I'm not paying for it," he said and Sally cast him a dirty look,

"Shut up," she said, placing the magazine back onto its stand and dragging Lestrade into the shady, cool corner of the building, from where they could still watch Howell, but not be seen by him,

"Why can't the AFP do this part?"

"Because we're the underdogs who need to be stuck outside on a forty degree day." Lestrade unbuttoned his collar down two buttons and sighed slightly as a tiny bit of evening air washed over them,

"This isn't fair," Sally pouted,

'Life isn't fair," The detective responded. Sally was about to tell him that she would personally make life harder for him if he started getting philosophical about everything, when Lestrade straightened as Howell emerged from the jewelers and checked the street up and down,

"Suspicious much?" Sally asked looking at Lestrade,

"I know," Lestrade said, watching as the man continue walking down the street, 'C'mon," Lestrade led the way this time, crossing the street, as the signal turned green, never taking his eyes off Howell.

'Where is he going? A man like him should have his own driver, in a nice, air-conditioned limo. He should _not_ be walking around in this heat."

"Are you just saying that because _you'd_ like to be in a nice, air-conditioned, limo?' Lestrade asked, a teasing hint to his tone as Sally crossed her arms, very much like a child,

'Don't go there," she said, facing him as he continued to watch Howell amble down the street,

"Go where?" he asked, a smile building on his lips as he glanced down at Sally before looking away and back to Howell. The sergeant's eyes darkened a fraction,

"Shut up," she said.

There was a moment of silence as the heat acted like a blanket, seeming to seal away the noises of the evening city, cocooning Sally and Lestrade in their own little world of following a man.

"I was in that conversation and don't think I understood anything we just said," Lestrade stated, breaking the silence,

A beat more of quiet went by and then suddenly both of them were laughing. The DI, laughing like never before as the stupidity of their conversation hit them.

Lestrade had honestly not laughed this hard in a very, very long time. By the time he was panting and his vision had cleared, Howell was a good two hundred meters ahead of them,

'Come on," the DI said, grabbing Sally's hand and dragging her forward,

Laughing, she followed behind him. Both of them were still chocking as Howell turned the next street and the two London police officers ran to keep up with him. They stopped before they reached the corner and Lestrade, feeling just a little drunk, but a finger to his lips and looked around the corner to see Howell enter yet another shop,

'He's-he's in another shop," The DI said, turning to face Sally, struggling to get her breath back,

"Again?" she panted, sliding down the wall to sit on the ground.

Lestrade joined her as they both caught their breath, sitting and watching as a tram went past, the bell ringing in the still, steadily cooling air.

"Do you think we should check in?" Lestrade asked,

"With the AFP?" Sally asked,

"Yeah,"

"No. They made us run around, they can check in with us," Lestrade turned to look at the sergeant.

A minute more of silence went by and he leant around the corner. No sign of Howell on the street yet.

"A lot has changed in the past year, huh?" Lestrade said, coming back to his original position and Sally turned to look at him. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, on the tall, shiny buildings in front of him.

"Yeah, you could say that," Sally said, keeping her voice completely neutral,

"This time, last year…"

"I was insulting Sherlock, you were yelling at me and I actually liked Anderson,"

"I have no idea what you saw in him," Lestrade said, laughing slightly,

"Neither do I," Sally said, chuckling. "Oh yeah," she said, "we didn't even know John back then,"

"Thank god for John," Lestrade said,

"Mmm. Sherlock would probably have killed someone by now,"

"Nah," Lestrade said, one side of his mouth curving up in a smile, "He would've just made it look like he killed someone to have a little fun," Sally laughed.

People walked past them, ignoring the two as they sat there, and every so often, Lestrade leant out to see if anything was happening with Howell. The sun had moved a fair bit when Lestrade and Sally, both who were starting to doze off in the beautiful, late summer conditions, were jerked awake as a commotion rang out from the street round the corner. Police instincts kicking in, both were on their feet in a second, and Lestrade had his hand on his gun.

"What the hell?" he whispered looked round to Sally, as the voices got louder,

"Have a look," Sally said. The detective inspector leaned out slightly and watched as Howell shoved a man against the wall, and then, _despit_e it being broad daylight, _despite_ there being people everywhere, he took out a gun and shot the man in the forehead, the silencer not allowing anyone to hear what was happening, and Howell's body blocking the view of people on the street.

And then he walked away, pocketing the gun, as a woman realised that there was a dead man. Lestrade watched in horror as no one, not a _single_ person on the street suspected the smartly dressed man who just kept on walking.

* * *

**There we go. Another chapter down. and the story is building. I seriously, honestly, promise there will be more action. **

**There we go. Long enough? Good enough? I'd love to hear your thoughts.**

**And I know I said that I'd update soon, but I had work experience and then I had exams and…yeah. TOO MUCH WORK! Sorry!**

**But I'm sick today, and that's why there's an update. So there.**

**Aza  
xoxo **


	22. Partners in love and crime

**Hello again! I am so sorry that i disappeared for so long, but working for the first time is a little strange. I love you all. Thank you for not disappearing. Here's the chapter**

* * *

**CHAPTER 22**

**1945**

**Room no. 110**

**Sofitel Hotel**

**Melbourne CBD, VIC**

"That…did not just happen," Lestrade said, turning back to a shocked Sally. The formerly peaceful air was rent with yells and sirens in the distance, fast approaching,

"Sally?" Lestrade touched her arm but she continued to stare ahead, "Sally,' he said, shaking her slightly. Her gaze finally focused on him,

"Are you okay?" Lestrade asked,

"I'm...yeah." Sally shook her head as if trying to clear it,

"Sally," Lestrade waiting until the sergeant was looking at him, at his eyes,

"It's alright to be scared,' he said, realizing, and feeling rather stupid for not thinking first, that the police sergeant had never actually been involved in a direct shoot-out.

Around them, the sirens sounded louder as they approached the scene and more and more people appeared. Lestrade figured it was probably best to get out of here quickly.

"C'mon," keeping his voice low, Lestrade took Sally's hand and led her back the way they had walked. The sergeant followed meekly as Lestrade tried to think what to do. He knew that he had to report the incident in to the AFP, but for now, his sergeant was his main concern.

The sounds of city changed as they walked deeper into it's heart, towards their hotel. It also grew steadily darker as they walked, and more and more people filled the streets. The detective inspector glanced back every now and then to find that there was no expression on the sergeants' face.

He picked up the pace, the silence of his talkative partner starting to worry him.

Pushing through the crowds, he finally managed to make his way to the hotel and walked into the waiting lifts. Sally still did not utter a single word.

Opening the door to their room, Lestrade pushed Sally in gently before following and locking the door behind him. A heavy silence filled the room.

Lestrade went around as if the sergeant was not standing stock still in the middle of the room. He walked to the TV and switched it on and turned to the kitchen,

'Do you want something to eat?" he asked as he disappeared around the corner, panicking as he tried to figure out what to do.

There was silence and the DI was about to go back when Sally's voice echoed through the room,

'Lestrade?" there was a pause, and the DI realised that he had stopped breathing so that he wouldn't miss a word,

"Yeah, Sally?" he asked. He waited as footsteps sounded and then the sergeant was in front of him, much like a child who was scared to approach,

'Can we talk?" Sally raised her eyes to his and the DI felt a small smile form,

"Always,"

* * *

**2019**

**Grand Hyatt Hotel**

**Collins Street, Melbourne**

**VIC, Australia**

"Pierre!" Sherlock shouted from the living room. A wall separated that and the bedroom, "What do you want now?" John asked, from his incredibly comfortable position on the four-poster bed.

"Well…If I said I needed a bit of plaster would you say that you were not about to go and get it?" the detective's voice echoed around the room and John sighed, dropping his head back on the pillow.

"You're the detective, Sherlock," John muttered, sure that Sherlock wouldn't hear him from the other room. The doctor allowed his eyes to slip shut and didn't move when the bed moved as his partner sat down.

"Want to see what makes me a really good detective?" Sherlock asked and John couldn't resist the smile.

"No," the doctor answered, "Too tired," he said, the warm summer breeze drifting in, and over him.

"Are you sure?" John stopped breathing as the words washed over him, caressing like the summer sun that was quickly disappearing, "hmm…didn't think so,"

* * *

**2030**

**Crown Casino**

**Heart of Melbourne**

**VIC, Australia**

The casino was crowded as Howell walked in and yet; the people parted like the red sea. People stopped and shook his hand. They asked when the next shows would be held, they stopped what they were doing, if only to get a glimpse of the casino tycoon.

Howell was smirking broadly as he entered the 'reserved' lift and hit the button for the top floor. The glass elevator rose quickly and quietly, taking him over the people who played on the floor.

Within a minute, Howell was twenty stories into the air. He stepped out of the building and ignored the panoramic view of the city as the light of the full moon spilled in through the glass.

Up here, it was quiet, and there was only one table, empty. The carpet was a lush green colour and was at least four centimetres thick.

The billionaire strode in and carelessly threw his Armani coat onto the back of one of the chairs around the table. Sitting down on the chair, Howell pulled out his phone,

"Where are they?" he asked, as soon as the other end was answered,

"The Sheik is five minutes away and the usual four are seated at the dining tables in ball room four."

Howell kicked his feet back,

"You can bring them up here now," he said, "We're ready to begin,"

"Yes sir,"

The line went dead and Howell watched as waiters stood in the shadows of the room, waiting for the guests to arrive. Howell motioned one carrying his favourite grapes forwards and grabbed a handful. Sending him away, the tycoon absentmindedly wondered how much money he was going to make tonight.

* * *

**2031**

**Room no. 110**

**Sofitel Hotel**

**VIC, Australia**

"So that…it was…different" Sally finished. She had spent the last half an hour just talking with the DI and he understood. Everything. He knew how his sergeant felt and she was grateful for it. She was glad that he didn't press her but let her take her own time.

"When did you…' she faded off and Lestrade smiled slightly at her tone – nervous but at the same time curious –

"I was twenty," he said, understanding that she was asking what his first death was. Sally's jaw dropped,

"But…you were at Uni! You did your degree of criminology first, didn't you?"

"Yeah," he said, "I walked in on a murder," Sally's brows shot up,

"I think you were still in high school,' he said, "It wasn't made public knowledge,"

"Really?" she asked,

"Yeah. I spent a year of sleepless nights," The DI frowned slightly as a realisation him – ha had told no one that. Not even Juli. _Aannd we're back with the other memories__._ Lestrade sighed.

A comfortable silence filled the room as Sally munched on a handful of nuts, 'We should probably report in," she said, jerking her boss out of his reverie,

"Yeah…we probably should," he laughed, and got to his feet, stumbling slightly as he tripped over the sheets of the bed. Walking to the phone he dialled the number he memorised.

Immediately, someone answered,

"Where were you?" James voice sounded over the earpiece and Lestrade winced,

"If you were that damn concerned, you would have come to the hotel," he answered back,

"We did!" the Aussie agents voice held a note of irritation, "They said that you had not gone up to your rooms,"

"How soon was this after the shooting?" Lestrade asked,

"Twenty minutes,"

'We were still walking back," The DI rubbed his forehead with his free hand as James sighed on the other end,

'Well…are you both okay?"

"Yeah," Lestrade huffed back,

"Good, because your deaths would bring a little too much attention,"

"Oh, forget about the fact that we'd be dead," Lestrade snapped back,

"We're coming over. Stay where you are, and we, I repeat, _we_ get in contact with those other agents of yours,"

"Alright." Lestrade all but slammed the phone down and turned to Sally,

"Annoyed?" she asked,

"Shut up," the DI mumbled, but as the sergeant continued to hold his gaze, he broke into a smile, 'they're coming over,"

"Let me change," with that, Sally was up and at the wardrobe and the DI gave up trying to convince her otherwise and sat in front of the TV, switching it on to a footy game that he didn't understand.

* * *

**2031**

**Grand Hyatt Hotel**

**Collins Street, Melbourne**

**VIC, Australia**

"You know we've got to move, right?" John asked, wondering why he was lying here, curled up against Sherlock instead of getting dressed for the next part of their mission as the bells at St. Paul's rang for eight thirty.

"Yeah," the deep voice rumbled in the detective's chest but still neither moved. At least, not until he phone started ringing.

Reluctantly, John got up and walked over, lifting the receiver up, 'Hello?" he asked,

"Pierre?" Lestrade's voice on the other end sounded and John smiled,

'Matt Robson?" John asked,

"Yes. I'm calling about your car, it's ready for pick up," Lestrade wondered earlier why agents had to use code. It turns out that it was protocol - especially because anyone could be listening. It was, however, incredibly confusing, and at times unclear.

"Is it?" John asked, trying to remember what that was supposed to mean,

"Yes, it is. You come and pick it up now,"

'Right. I'll be there."

"Amy will be watching for you," Lestrade added, hoping John remembered that Sally was Amy,

"Yeah…sure," with that, John hung up and turned to Sherlock, the I'm-confused-can-you-clear-things-up look on his face.

"Pierre?"

"Erm…our car is ready to be picked up and we can go now. Amy will be watching," John repeated and Sherlock grinned,

"Finally," he said, leaping out of bed and yanking his discarded clothes from of the floor,

"What?'

"We're going to the casino!"

John stood still for a moment longer, "And you're excited because?"

"It's fun!" Sherlock's wild hair was falling into his eyes and those incredible, grey eyes were once again filled with energy,

'Well what are you standing there naked for?" John blushed and realised he _was_ standing there staring at the detective,

"Not that I mind," Sherlock added in a quieter undertone as John tripped over his pants and landed on the floor, still blushing.

* * *

**2031**

**Room no. 110**

**Sofitel Hotel**

**VIC, Australia**

"Right, they're getting ready to move to the casino," Lestrade turned to find his bed covered with monitors and Sally and the two other agents huddled around, watching the comings and going of the casinos. Somehow, they had managed to tap into the security system and even had footage of the high rollers game that had started on the top floor where Howell himself was playing.

Mitchell turned away from the screens, 'So, just to clarify, you realise you are going to have to testify in the court, as the only living witnesses we have of the murder?" he asked and for the second time, Lestrade nodded,

'Yes," he said, in a slightly irritated voice, "we know,"

"You can't leave this hotel," James added, without turning around and Sally looked at him,

"But…" she faded off and he turned his head. It was then Sally realised they were a lot closer that she had intended them to be,

'That's not a problem, is it?" he asked and the sergeant quickly shook her head before scrambling of the bed,

"I need a drink," she said, walking to the kitchen as Mitch frowned at his partner. James laughed at the older man's expression and turned back to the screens.

Lestrade slid into Sally's spot and James moved over for him as Mitch went to talk to Sally,

"So, how long have you been in Scotland Yard?" James asked,

"Nineteen years," Lestrade answered and James raised his eyebrows,

"Nineteen? This is my second year,"

"In AFP?" Lestrade asked and the junior agent nodded,

'Mitch is my current mentor,"

"What do you mean by _current_ mentor?" Lestrade asked and James gave a casual wave of his hand,

"Oh my last three kicked me out," he paused at the slightly disbelieving look on the DI's face, "You see," he leaned in conspiratorially, "I'm incredible brilliant, that's why the hired me so young. But I'm really a pain in the ass," Green eyes glittered as they laughed wickedly and Lestrade shook his head, turning back to the screen,

'Married?" he asked, and was shocked to hear,

'Yeah. But she cheats on me. I cheat on her. We're good like that," Lestrade turned to him in disbelief, "What about you?" James asked,

"Uh," Lestrade felt a pang, "My wife was…Erm, killed," He glanced left to see that the mirth had left the young man's face,

"I'm sorry," he said, and Lestrade thought he would leave it at that, 'I can see you loved her," Lestrade glanced back at him, a slight frown on his forehead,

"How?" his voice cracked slightly. There was a pause as the Aussie agent examined Lestrade, "It's in your eyes," James turned back to the screens but Lestrade kept looking straight at him. _Full of surprises, aren't you?_

* * *

**Somewhere in the CBD**

**VIC, Australia**

"Will you kindly stop dragging me around like I am your-"

"My what, Pierre?" Sherlock asked, without looking back, as he pulled John out of the hotel and onto the crowded street. The lights glittered and the pounding of music from the nearest club was a background noise to the noise and chatter of Friday night Melbourne. Finally, Sherlock stopped walking as the crossing man turned red and they had to wait at the side of the road.

'Does everything have to turn sexual?" John asked, slightly exasperated, but mostly happy,

"Yep. Your fault," and they were moving again, with Sherlock in the lead,

"How's it my fault?" John panted as he hurried to keep in step with his incredibly smartly dressed and fast paced husband,

"Because. You're…irresistible."

"What?"

'Look around you John," Sherlock pulled him around a group of young men who were chanting something about the Dogs, "Women have to stop themselves drooling when you walk past,"

John actually looked around but all he could see was people and darkness. It didn't help that they were moving so fast, they may as well have been running.

"Men too," Sherlock added as he steered them around a tree and jerked John to make sure that he didn't walk into the thing.

John stumbled slightly as he tripped over a bench that materialised and was incredibly surprised when they abruptly stopped moving and he realised that they were standing a little way into an alley, the flow of people not affecting them.

Sherlock was standing in front, looking at him.

"You do look incredibly good tonight," his voice was barely above a whisper,

"I'm glad…someone noticed," John said, not smiling, because his mind was completely caught up in Sherlock.

Sherlock's breath, Sherlock's body, Sherlock's eyes.

"Don't react, Pierre," the doctor took a while to process the soft words, "But there is a camera behind me, and I have no doubt that one of Howell's cronies, who, by the way, will have us on twenty-four hour watch, will be watching. I believe the team will also be watching." John didn't let his face change, but he did feel a pang of disappointment that Sherlock wasn't dragging him in here because he wanted to be romantic.

_What did you expect? A candlelight dinner on the foreshore as well?_ John asked himself but allowed a smile, _but…if it were any other way…my Sherlock wouldn't be my Sherlock at all_.

"That's fine by me, Pierre," John said,

'Good," The detective stepped closer and for once, John managed to hold his ground. He still wasn't use to that potent gaze directed on him and only him, "Then you won't mind if I snog you up against a wall, will you?" and without waiting for anything other permission, that is exactly what Sherlock proceeded to do.

* * *

**Room no. 110**

**Sofitel Hotel**

**VIC, Australia**

"That is something I don't need to see," Lestrade said, watching with a slight feeling of horror and maybe…just maybe…longing.

Maybe.

"I dunno, it's not that bad a sight," Sally said, watching with her head at an angle while James scoffed,

'I've seen better,"

"Where?" Sally asked, before thinking, and the young detective turned to her,

'Do you really want to know?" he asked. Sally shook her head and a cheeky smile appeared on his face,

"Oh good. Because I like Mitch as a mentor. I don't want to change again." Mitch raised an eyebrow before shaking his head,

'They're moving on, I believe they're heading for the casino, now," the older AFP agent said,

"This is Sherlock. He might just decide to give that up to continue what they were doing back at the hotel," Lestrade said and Sally laughed,

"Probably, except John wouldn't let him,"

"Quite frankly, I don't think John is capable of speech or any form of protest at the moment," James put in, laughing as he watched the doctor follow Sherlock out, going at a much slower pace now.

* * *

**In front of Crown Casino**

**Melbourne**

**VIC, Australia**

The casino reared in front of them, the reflection on the Yarra beautiful, the fairy lights in the trees adding to the charm of the place as a sea of people moved around and into the building. John was still slightly dazed from that mind numbingly amazing…whatever that was back there.

'Bob," John said, keeping his voice low. The detective turned around,

'Do you have any idea where we are going?"

"No, but when you produce that credit card of yours at the front desk and ask for ten thousand dollar chips and then proceed to the nearest poker table, we'll get their attention."

'What credit card?" John asked, knowing that he didn't take anything with him from the hotel,

'This one," Sherlock removed one from his inside blazer pocket and John raised his eyebrows,

'When did we get that?"

"Oh, when we arrived, didn't I tell you?" Sherlock led the way inside as John rolled his eyes,

'No, Bob, you did not tell me," he said, as the bright lights hit his eyes and bounced of the white tiles below.

"Oh." Sherlock stopped and John walked into him, "Sorry, love," John's heart almost stopped as the words left Sherlock's mouth and he had to remind himself to walk.

_He's acting, _were the first words to go through John's head, but then he looked up at Sherlock, walking next to him and as the detective's eyes met his, he realised, even Sherlock wasn't that good. With a small smile, John walked into that casino, midnight blue blazer and grey slacks catching the attention of Howell's secretary, five storey's up in the security central.

* * *

**NOTE: There is no disrespect meant to the owners of Crowne Casino. That is why I spelt the 'Crown' without the e. All my characters are fictional.**

**Moving on.**

**So...any flames? Praise? or WHY DID YOU TAKE SO LONG TO UPDATE's? **

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	23. Texas Hold 'Em

**See? I'm making up for not updating for so long. Forgiven me yet? :D  
**

**Love you all! Thanks so much for reading, reviewing, favouriting and alerting! You make me so happy!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 23**

**Gaming floor**

**Crown Casino**

**Melbourne**

**VIC, Australia**

John laughed and the players around him groaned as, amazingly, he won his sixth straight hand at Texas hold 'em poker. He felt slightly light-headed as the piles of chips (now in the four million dollar stage) were pushed towards him. There was a massive crowd around him and he turned to Sherlock with glittering eyes. The detective had no idea how John was doing it.

By the third hand, he began to suspect cheating before he remembered that John would never do that. Then he spent the next two hands watching as his fiancée got richer and richer and by the sixth hand's beginning he had to put it down to luck.

The detective knew that right now, Howell would probably have to be watching this game from above in the security room as John pulled in the money, and Sherlock knew that they wouldn't have to wait long before they were called into the high rollers game. John smiled,

"love, what say you and I go and see what we can buy with this?" he asked and Sherlock nodded, reaching for John's hand,

"Sure," he took John by the hand and they left to applause as the chips were collected. They walked to the cashier and pooled their money there.

Amazingly, no one came to check John for cheating. No security guards appeared to drag him away. The doctor knew that Howell _must_ know who he is – and more importantly, doesn't want to lose him as a potential player. They had been told that they'd be allowed free reign in the casino, but John, so unused to spending lavishly or, more to the point, having the money to spend lavishly, it was like being in a dream world.

In a slight daze, John listened as the girl smiled and told him that the four million, three hundred thousand and ten dollars were cashed into his account and was ready for use.

John let Sherlock drag him away and towards the bar, "Pierre," Sherlock said, setting him down. The doctor looked at him,

'You're a self made millionaire. Stop looking so pleased about winning a couple of million,"

Only Sherlock would pop a man's bubble.

John's face dropped slightly, "can you be any less blunt?" he asked, but there was a smile lingering on the corner of his lips,

"I probably could," Sherlock answered back, quite seriously. John managed to sit still for a moment longer before jumping up and wrapping his arms around Sherlock. The detective has expected as such and already had a hand on the bar to steady them, as people flowed around them and the sound of the pokies machines rang in the air.

"I actually won a game!" John exclaimed, as if he only just realised and Sherlock shook his head. The bartender's laugh caught their attention and Sherlock moved his head so that he could see past John,

"You're one of the few," the barkeep said, looking at John. Sherlock turned to face the man fully and realised that he was one of the AFP agents. Dark blonde hair falling into hazel eyes complete with tanned skin that was enhanced under the lights made it impossible for anyone to forget – even John.

The doctor smiled and sat back down, "Two beers," he said and Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"Beer doesn't take your fancy?' the barkeep asked, catching the expression,

"Not particularly. And since my fiancé did just win an extraordinary amount of money, I see very little reason for me not to order your finest whiskey,"

"You drink whiskey?" John asked sceptically, as the barkeeper went around his business.

"Always,"

"Since when?" John's voice went up a notch and Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned in so that his mouth was a centimetre away from John's. The doctor's breath hitched,

"Stop thinking dirty," Sherlock muttered and he could _feel _John's blush and allowed himself a small file before saying what he actually meant to, "It's on my file. I suggest you read it,' Sherlock said and the doctor dropped his forehead onto Sherlock's

"I never remember that stuff," The small whine in John's voice was enough to make Sherlock want to leave the casino and go to their temporary home, when the barkeep cleared his throat as he brought the drinks back,

"A mug of beer," he said, placing it in front of John, who normally pale cheeks were burning,

"And a bottle of our finest whiskey," he placed it in front of Sherlock who nodded his thanks,

'And, can you tell the manager…thanks," Sherlock said and the agent smiled and nodded,

"No problem, sir," he said and then his eyes fell onto John,

"Any messages?" he asked and the blush on John's cheeks deepened.

He didn't know why.

He did have a feeling, however, that he would know shortly, because next to him, Sherlock tensed.

"No, thankyou," John allowed a small smile to come to his lips,

"I'll take the bottle with me," Sherlock said, and without waiting for a reply, he gabbed John and dragged him off.

* * *

**Upstairs room**

**Crown Casino**

**Melbourne**

**VIC, Australia**

Upstairs, Howell watched as the couple left the casino,

'Send an invitation to Mr. Mannu, asking him to join me tomorrow for the Saturday night game," Howell said, watching he screens as his secretary hastily scrawled the instructions down.

"Yes sir," he mumbled,

"And make sure that his fiancé is out of the building. Let's keep things as simple as possible," Howell leaned forwards as if to study John's face better as he turned to face Sherlock outside the casino and the light fell of the doctor's face,

"Yes sir,"

"Oh, and I want those print outs of today's profits, take it to my office."

"Yes sir,"

"That will be all," The secretary hurried out of the room, leaving Howell and the ten other security guards to stare at the screens.

Howell continued to watch as the couple climbed into a taxi and found that this man – the man that he was meant to capture for his gang, Pierre – may prove a bit tougher than he realised.

_Especially with a fiancé. His word may change my investment's mind._

The billionaire sat back as the taxi pulled away from the curb. _Perhaps, it would be better if the fiancé…didn't exist, later?_

Howell got to his feet and zipped his jacket on, "I'm going home," he announced and the room replied with a 'yes sir', the chorus following him out.

_I'll deal with the fiancé later. In England…perhaps._ He walked to the elevator and hit the button. He leant against the wall, staring at nothing in particular; his black eyes glinting as his brain whirred with ideas and excitement started to bubble beneath the surface.

_I have a contact in England, I'm sure he can arrange…yes._ Howell smiled, both because the lift was here and because a plan was coming to life. _Accidents happen. Mr. Mannu will be well and truly under my control. It will be perfect. Now…what's that contact's name again?_

With that, Howell hit the button for the ground floor and tried not to look to smug.

He didn't manage.

* * *

**Hmmm..yeah. **

**So...Cookie369, this is for you. You should know this.**

**Can anyone guess who that contact is? **

**I do have Cookie to thank for that. *hugs her***

**Oh...and did you understand the thoughts thing? I'm not sure whether it made any sense.**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	24. A turn of events

**Hello all!**

**You're going to like this chapter...I hope :D**

* * *

**CHAPTER 24**

**2111**

**Sofitel Hotel**

**Melbourne**

**VIC Australia**

"Bob, you've barely said a single word to me the entire ride home," John said, as he trailed in after Sherlock and watched in exasperation as the detective ignored him and walked further into the room, not switching the lights on as John closed the door. "What have I done?" the doctor felt a pang of hurt and irritation as Sherlock didn't reply.

"Sherlock," The doctor let out a huff as he realised that there was no getting through to the detective who collapsed on the couch and switched the TV on to drown out John's voice.

"You know what? Fine." John flicked on the lights with more force than necessary and then took his coat of and threw it at Sherlock as he walked towards the bathroom,

"Be an arse. Like I care." Grabbing the bathrobe, John stormed into the bathroom and slammed the door shut.

Sherlock didn't move but instead focused on calming himself down, the blazer warm over him, smelling exactly like John. Yes, he was irritated when the agent looked at his John that way, but as he lay there, he quickly realised that it wasn't that. It was the fact that John blushed. It was Sherlock's job to make him blush, not anyone else's, damn it.

And he realised just how possessive that made him.

Sitting up slowly and turning the volume on the TV right down, he glanced over to the closed bathroom door and sighed, falling back to the cushions, the sound of the running shower loud, seeming to echo through the suite. Before Sherlock could do anything about it though, a confident knock sounded at the door. Getting up, Sherlock walked over and opened it, to find Lestrade smiling at him, holding a bag of Chinese,

'Thought you'd like a noodle box," he said,

"A what?" the detective asked,

"Use that brain of yours, Sherlock," Lestrade walked into the suite and Sherlock shut the door before following him to the couch,

"What are you watching?" the DI asked, looking at the screen,

'Dunno…sports," Sherlock said, dropping down next to Lestrade. The DI removed three boxes from the bag and took one for himself,

'Where's Sally?" Sherlock asked, deciding that, despite his bad mood, John would not be happy if he were not courteous to their guest – John's best mate.

'Oh, she's gone out for dinner with...what's his name…Matt,"

'Matt?"

'Yeah, he asked her if she wanted dinner. Wonder how she'll react when she finds out he's married," Greg chuckled and Sherlock had to refrain from saying she's done it before, why not one more time?

Sherlock grabbed a box and the chopsticks,

'You can use the sticks?" Lestrade asked, twirling the noodles around his fork,

'Yes. I learnt in Japan," Sherlock said,

"You were in Japan?" if the DI's eyebrows went any higher, they'd disappear into his hairline. Before Sherlock could tell Lestrade he was stupid, the bathroom door opened and steam flooded the room, from which John emerged, the fluffy white bath robe he was in so different from his daily clothes Lestrade had to stop himself from laughing out loud. John frowned slightly as he saw Sherlock, but his face lit up when his gaze landed on Lestrade,

'Greg!" he called out and the DI rose to his feet to hug him,

"Nice robe," The DI teased and John laughed,

"Shut up," John took the chair that faced both Sherlock and the DI and he steadfastly ignored Sherlock,

'So, how was today?"

"I came to ask you that," Lestrade said, "Nice winnings, mate,"

"I know, right? That was my luckiest streak. Why can't these things happen when I'm playing for money to go into my _own_ bank account?" he whined and the DI chuckled,

"Luck's a bitch,"

'You can say that again," Leaning forward he picked up the noodle box and chopsticks,

"You know how to use those damned sticks as well?" Lestrade asked,

"Yeah I learned in Afghanistan," Even Sherlock cracked a smile at the look on the DI's face.

* * *

**Sofitel Hotel**

**Presidential Suite**

**Melbourne**

**VIC Australia**

Sophie Laurent paced backwards and forwards as she tried to figure out how to get out of this damn hotel without her partner knowing. He would literally kill her if he knew she didn't want to be here. There wouldn't be a chance for her to apologise to the madman.

Three years ago, Sophie was a girl on the street, pregnant, and a drug addict, she had nothing. Then she ran into Stewart Howell, who took her in, looked after her until the baby was born and even found a good home for the baby. He was a different man then. He was a sweet twenty-four year old who wanted to help her. Then, a year later, he got involved with a European gang. Everything went downhill from there.

The man she thought she knew disappeared and he became a cold hearted killer, not the man who saved her from the drugs and gave her a second chance.

Sophie had to get away from here. The abuse heaped on her, the constant reminder that she was a tramp whom he let in out of pity, was a bit much. He was driving her insane. She knew if she could get enough money and run, she could start again somewhere, go to college, finish her arts degree and get a good job. Yes, she owed Howell for her survival, but she has repaid that debt in the beatings every other night.

She heard footsteps outside and her heart jumped – he was home. Running quickly, her feet making no sound on the carpet below her, Sophie ran into the bedroom and leapt onto the bed, falling gracefully and closing her eyes – pretending to be asleep.

The door banged open and confident, arrogant footsteps walked into the room. Sophie kept her face perfectly blank as he walked into the room. He stopped at the foot of the bed, and she could hear his breathing. It was soft, quiet.

"Ah, Sophie," It was so gentle, she barely heard it and wonder briefly if he was drunk, "Why are you so beautiful?" The words washed over her and she felt a stab of guilt as the memory of a week ago came back. She had wanted to pick up that knife. She had wanted to kill the man who was making her life hell.

But maybe…

Maybe he was still the man she fallen in love with?

His jacket dropped onto the bed and Sophie wisely kept still as her partner went about his nightly routine. _Perhaps escape can wait? _She thought before allowing herself to drift off.

As Howell reached the bathroom, he turned so that he could get a glance at his sleeping partner, and, after making sure she was asleep, he reached for the phone in his back pocket. Dialling a number, he put it to his ear and waited. On the second ring, it picked up,

"Scotland Yard, how can I help you?" the operators voice sounded loud and clear,

'I need to contact a prisoner,"

"Which one?"

"Jim Moriarty," There was a pause on the other end of the line,

"Are you family?" she asked,

'Yeah,"

There was another pause,

'I'm sorry sir, no one can get in touch with this man,"

"It's Stewart Howell, I'm calling from Australia, I need to talk with him,"

"I'm sorry sir,"

"Listen, put your boss on,"

"Sir," there was a flick and Howell waited, before a gruff voice answered,

"Hello?"

"My name is Stewart Howell. I have four billion dollars a year invested in Scotland Yard. I need to speak with Jim Moriarty. Put me on, or you will be responsible for huge funding losses," The man on the other line had to stop himself from spluttering. He knew that name, and it was true. Howell was a major sponsor.

"Yes sir," The cop put Howell on hold and called up the high security prison. The warden answered immediately,

"Hello?"

"It's Chief Walden, I need Jim Moriarty on the phone."

'The madman?"

"Yep, its urgent,"

"I'll get him right here, sir," The chief as put on hold and it was a minute before Jim answered. The voice was smooth but cracked slightly,

"Hello?"

"You have a call," With that, Walden switched lines and connected Howell with Jim,

"There you go," with that, he hung up and left the men to talk,

"Hello?" Howell said, 'Jim?"

"Stewart?" the psychopath's voice went up and those dark, dark eyes glinted for the first time in months, the dirty white top he wore so different to the tailored suits he loved,

"Jim. Listen. I need a favour,"

"I'm in prison, Stewart," Jim said, dryly, "I should hardly need remind you about that,"

"I know, friend," Howell paused, "I need a hit man for a murder,"

"Well, well, very direct aren't you. That means it needs to be done soon," Jim's accent became more pronounced as a laugh entered his voice, "Always so predictable, Stewart," Howell laughed on the other end,

'Always annoying, Jim," he said,

"Touché," There was a pause, "Who is it then?"

"Man by the name of Bob Maxwell,"

"English, well bred,"

"Obviously," Howell said, before continuing, "Engaged to Pierre Mannu, French national, permanent resident of Manchester, billionaire,"

"Oh I see now," Moriarty said, "One of you clients. No, wait," The man smiled, "He will be your client. The fiancé's in the way,"

"Always perceptive Jim, that's what I love about you," Jim chuckled,

"I'll see what I can do,"

"Don't give me that crap, you're Jim Moriarty, you can do anything." Jim laughed outright this time,

"Fine, expect a call from me in three days,"

"That's more like it," Howell smiled, "Talk then,"

"Bye," Jim hung up and Howell sighed.

It drained him when he had to talk to Moriarty. The man was a genius – but a crazy one at that. He said one thing that tipped him and he would be in trouble. Running a hand across his chin, Howell opened the door and flicked off the bathroom light, deciding he should probably turn in.

* * *

**2230**

**Sofitel Hotel**

**Melbourne**

**VIC Australia**

Sherlock watched from the bed as Lestrade and John – changed now into comfy track pants and a T-shirt, no jumper needed in the heated suite – laughed softly at the comedian on the TV. Sherlock had 'gone to sleep' about an hour ago, but was angrier than he had ever been. John had said _three _words to him in three hours. _Three!_ It was utterly preposterous.

He had tried to make conversation, by asking John whether he liked the noodles, and the doctor said, "Yes, they're good," before turning back to Lestrade to continued their topic of conversation – rugby.

Slowly, Sherlock sat up, his pitch-black locks of hair falling into his eyes, and neither of the men noticed,

"I'm going out," he announced, getting of the bed and finally, _finally, _John's head snapped around a worried frown appeared on his face,

"Where are you going?" he asked,

"Out," With that, Sherlock grabbed John's overlarge jacket and, after pulling on a pair of boots – they may have been Lestrade's, Sherlock walked out of the room to a "Sherlock!" from John.

Only the TV could be heard in the apartment and Lestrade looked at John, "Lover's tiff?" he asked and John threw him a sceptical look,

"Shut up," he muttered, "I just hope he doesn't go and do anything stupid,"

"It's 10:30 at night, of course he's not going to do anything stupid, Lestrade said and John threw one of the fluffy cushions at him, wiping the smug smile off the DI's face.

* * *

**Outside the Sofitel Hotel**

**Melbourne**

**VIC Australia**

The night air blasted Sherlock and he glanced up to see that the sky was clear, meaning the temperature had to be below ten degrees Celsius. Stepping onto the empty streets, the detective looked left and right. There was nothing there, and the light from the Hotel was lighting up the street more than the street lamps that were scattered around the city. Sherlock was not entirely sure why he was out here, alone, and why he couldn't go back inside, kiss his husband – _wait, what? Husband?_ – Sherlock swallowed as the word hit him like a sledgehammer. In his head, not for undercover purposes, he just called John his husband.

_Subconsciously, surely,_ The detective wasn't convincing himself and decided that now was not the time to think about it. He pushed it to the back of his mind and continued on his train of thought, _I probably should go and apologise…_

The detective was about to turn around and head back inside when a scream echoed around the corner. He froze. He could go back inside – it was probably just a party girl slightly drunk, _nine out of ten times, it is,_ he thought, _but John would never forgive me. _

Sighing quietly, Sherlock wondered when John became his conscience and walked towards the scream. The light from the hotel faded into the background as the detective kept on walking. He turned a corner and found it empty.

Walking down the streets, Sherlock listened for the slightest change in the quiet streets. There was nothing. Deciding the scream didn't mean anything, Sherlock turned around and the last thing he saw was the street lamps before everything faded into nothing, accompanied with a rather sharp pain in the back of his head a muted, but penetrating,

"Yes!"

* * *

**There we go. Cliffhangers are back!**

***dances***

**lol :D**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	25. Captured Again

**It looks like monthly updates are all I'm going to manage from now on. Sigh.**

**Oh well.**

**On with the story! :D**

* * *

**CHAPTER 24**

**Sofitel hotel**

**Melbourne**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

John woke slowly and, ignoring Lestrade, who had fallen asleep next to him on the couch, his head resting on the armrest, John glanced back to the bed and felt his heart jump as the sunlight bathed sheets remained as empty as they were last night when Sherlock stormed out of the apartment.

"Oi," John nudged the DI awake and the detective woke up slowly, his neck screaming after a night sleeping as he had,

"John…" for a moment he was confused as to why John was waking him when he remembered,

"S'too early," he slurred, letting his eyes fall closed and dropping his head back against the couch. John whacked his arm harder and the DI jumped, opening his eyes again and this time, registered the worry on John's face,

"He's not back yet," John said, and that was all Lestrade needed. The DI stood and John followed.

"He could just be pouting," The DI suggested, glancing at John who was staring at the bed with the same worried expression. Hard eyes met him as John turned,

'No," he said simply and walked to the door. Lestrade followed and pulled on Sherlock's slightly smaller shoes before following John out of the apartment. Ignoring the fact that he was hungry he asked,

'Where are we going?"

"AFP," John replied and Lestrade sighed,

"Alright."

The doctor didn't know what to do. He could _feel _that something was wrong. This wasn't a case of Sherlock being a petulant, albeit well funded, child who had run away and booked himself another room. John walked briskly out of the lift with Lestrade right behind him. They walked through the foyer, attracting a bit of attention from the lady at the desk, who had seen John and Sherlock together countless times and now saw him emerging with Lestrade.

Walking out onto the street, John opened the door to one of the cabs that was waiting there, "St. Kilda Road Police Station," Lestrade said, climbing in behind John,

"What about Sally?" John asked,

'She'll be there," The cab took from the curb quickly and John started out the window and at the people walking by.

Where the hell was Sherlock?

* * *

**Holding room**

**Regional Victoria**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

This was turning into rather a bad habit. Sherlock blinked as the blue ceiling came into view and slanted, early morning sunlight coming in from the eastern facing window and forced him to squint as it hit his grey eyes.

There was a pounding in the back of his head and Sherlock was entirely sure that whoever had taken him did not mean well. He also highly doubted that this was a case of wrong place, wrong time. They were on a high profile case in a foreign country working against an underworld tycoon. Chances that he had mistakenly been taken were very slim. He could probably calculate them if he could be bothered.

There were no sounds around him. Even though the wooden shutters on the barred window was wide open, no sound floated in. Sitting up extremely carefully, Sherlock groaned as the pounding in his head felt like someone was hitting him with a sledgehammer. Then getting a pneumatic drill to add insult to injury.

Sherlock stood and found that the window was at eye-level and he was looking out on a grassy field that stretched to the horizon. _Not in the city. Perfect._ Sherlock said, even in his half concussed state, able to come up with sarcastic remarks.

The detective walked around the rest of the room, his eyes examining every crack in the wall and every smell that floated in through the window was catalogued in his impressive brain. To the average person, there didn't actually appear to be a door, but Sherlock found the place where he believed it was, the slate grey walls showing a slight indent. Sherlock bent down and saw the faint lines on the highly polished floorboards he was on. He only took note that these were one hundred percent oak – meaning whoever was holding him had a bit of money.

After prodding around the door area, Sherlock sighed and went back to the bed, flopping down onto it and then regretting it as his head protested at the sudden movement. Sherlock let his eyes scan the ceiling one more time and in the corner a tiny, tiny black dot was visible. He let his eyes scan past it while his mind worked overtime.

They were watching him.

_The question that remains is who, exactly, are 'they'?_

* * *

**Just outside the holding room**

**Regional Victoria**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

Even as Sherlock pondered these thoughts, his kidnappers were watching him. Both Irish and both with previous convictions, Timothy Baron and Larry McKenzie were overly amused at the fact that Sherlock seemed bored.

'Why don't we go and entertain him?" Timothy asked, and Larry chuckled,

'Fun as that would be," he flicked a strand of pitch black hair out of his eyes, "The boss said to bring him in unharmed,"

"Why?"

"Because, he said he wanted to see him first,"

"The boss is in jail," Timothy huffed,

'It's called video, you idiot," said Larry punching his partner on the arm,

"Whatever,"

Before the argument could progress any further, the phone rang and Larry picked up, 'Hello?" he answered and he reflexively straightened as he heard the voice on the other end,

'Yes boss," he said, "We have him," Larry listened a bit more and the smile spread across his face, "No problem boss, the video footage is being sent over right now," he nodded to Tim who hastily clicked the button that sent the feed from the holding room to the online account set up by their boss. Larry looked up as he hung the phone up,

'So, did we do good?" Timothy asked,

"Yep," Larry replied, smirking at the thought of ten thousand dollars sitting in their bank accounts.

* * *

**St Kilda Police HQ**

**St Kilda, Melbourne**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

"Listen, he's been missing since last night," John said, trying to appeal to the man in front of him – chief of police Mark Leighton – "You can't tell me you can't do anything!" John exclaimed and the chief rolled his eyes,

'DI, knock some sense into your friend," he said, "You know as well as I do you have to wait forty-eight hours before reporting a missing persons case,"

The chief should have known the appeal was useless as Lestrade grimaced at him,

"A missing person who is down here to help _you _catch a criminal that is _not_ our responsibility," Lestrade replied, slamming his hand down on the table and John felt a surge of thankfulness that Lestrade was with him on this one.

The doctor knew that you had to wait, but he demanded to see the Chief and then brought in the fact that they were overseas help – meaning this could strain diplomatic ties between the two countries. However, that didn't seem to be working.

The Chief ran a hand across his forehead, "What am I supposed to do? Start a national manhunt? For a man that is not a citizen?" He asked, exasperated, "Look, we're already stretched thin in Victoria as it is, and neither of you are helping the case,"  
"Sir, please-" Lestrade didn't even get to finish his sentence as the man's patience ran out.

'No more," he said, standing up, 'Go back to the hotel and stay there, I'm sure your friend will turn up," Without waiting for them to say anything else, he pushed them out of the office and slammed the door in their faces.

"I take it that didn't go as planned?" asked Sally, joining them as they walked, angry and irritated towards the entrance,

"No shit, Sally," John muttered, as she fell into step with them,

"We're not getting any help from this quarter," Lestrade and Sally smiled,

'What?" The detective asked,

"I may have got us some help,' as she said it, they turned a corner to find Mitch and James fighting good-naturedly,

"Boys?" she said and both of them turned to face them,

'Hey, John!" Mitch walked forward and pulled him into a hug,

'Hi," John said, slightly surprised by the hug and almost thrown off balance as James walked up to him and hugged him as well,

"I hear we need to get your friend back," he said,

"Erm…yeah," John replied, still slight surprised,

"Great," The doctor exchanged a glance with the DI who shrugged, looking as surprised as John did. The doctor grabbed Sally and dragged her close, "What the hell did you do with them?" he asked and Sally smiled sweetly,

'I threatened to tell James' wife about his many affairs and that Mitch was aiding him,"

"And?" Lestrade asked,

'Apparently, Steph is not a woman to be crossed,"

"Sally?" Lestrade said,

'Yes?"

"I think I love you,' Lestrade said and Sally blushed while John rolled his eyes as the troop exited the Police HQ and they followed Mitch to the nearest police car.

* * *

**HM Prison Frankland**

**Brasside, County Durham**

**England**

**UK**

In HM Prison Frankland, Moriarty placed a wad of cash into the guard's hand and the door to the computer rooms opened, "Prisoner Moriarty has extended use of the computers," The Guards said to the overseer inside the room. He nodded and led Moriarty to a cubicle.

The man waited until the guards left him and he opened the Internet and logged onto his e-mail account. There was the video he was waiting for. He clicked on it and it loaded. Moriarty watched them drag the lifeless body of the target into the room. Fast-forwarding, he stopped when light filled the room and he squinted at the body on the pallet in the corner of the room. He fast-forwarded a little more and the body stirred. He pressed play and the person sat up. Moriarty's jaw dropped.

'Sherlock," he breathed, a smile spreading across his face, "No," he said as he watched the detective stand up and stare out the window. No. This was too good to be true. Howell was after Sherlock? Well…Moriarty felt like jumping up and down. His arch-enemy. The one man who could figure him out. His intellectual match.

_No doubt Pierre Mannu is Sherlock's pet, John. _Moriarty smiled some more. Screw Howell, he was getting out of here.

You see, Jim Moriarty always had a choice. He chose to stay in prison because he was a little bored with the outside. He wanted to see what was in here. The system was naïve enough to believe that he actually couldn't get out of here. He was only in here for a new experience. Sure, he suffered a bit, but then, that was all part of being in prison.

But now…with Sherlock in his grasp and John right there, perfect for torturing…Moriarty chuckled. Oh, this was perfect. He was getting out tomorrow. He closed the video and opened a new message. There were people who are waiting for his command to get him out of here. It wouldn't take very long.

Moriarty shut down and told the guard he was ready to go back.

Tonight was his last night in HM Frankland Prison.

* * *

**Sofitel Hotel**

**Melbourne**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

John, Sally, Lestrade, Mitch and James sat at the dining table of John and Sherlock's room. Files were spread across the table and Mitch was working on a laptop, trying to find the GPS signal on Sherlock's mobile.

"Where could he go?" Sally asked,

'I doubt he's gone anywhere," Lestrade said, "he was taken,"

"Look, I know you're a close-knit bunch…but…where's the evidence Sherlock was _taken_? How do you know he hasn't just gotten drunk and is still at the club or bar?" James asked, looking at the three Brits.

"Simple," said John, 'he would have been home by now," James raised an eyebrow,

"You know, he's not attached to you," he said and John shrugged but Lestrade came to his defence,

"In a way, he is," the DI said and John glanced up, 'before John came into Sherlock's life…it was the work that kept Sherlock going. He was addicted to it,"

"Yeah." Sally said, ad John flushed as she added the next bit, "now, he's learnt there are other things in life,"

"Before John we didn't think Sherlock _had_ a heart," Lestrade said, tuning John even redder,

'But then, John has this effect on nearly everyone he meets," Sally grinned,

"Yeah…well…" John swallowed and James laughed,

'I see…"

'GOT IT!" Mitch exclaimed, and the others all got up and stood behind him, staring at the laptop screen,

'Where is he?" John asked, his voice cracking with worry and Lestrade put a hand on John's shoulder,

"He's in Traralgon," Mitch said,

'Where?" The three Brits chorused,

"It's a country town, up north. Not too many people so not many cops, not too little people that someone would notice that someone new had arrived," James said, leaning over Sally's shoulder. She pulled away, and he chuckled,

"I'll get you eventually," he whispered,

'You're disgusting,' Sally said and Mitch nodded,

'I've been saying that for a while. It doesn't work," the officer got up, 'Come on, pack an overnight bag, all of you. James and I will go get our stuff and meet you in the foyer of this hotel. We've got a man to rescue."

* * *

**There we go. Sherlock's being held by Moriarty. Again. He's a silly duffer sometimes. :D**

**Now.**

***Moriarty hugs Pheobe***

**There. I'm done.**

**Aza  
****xoxo**


	26. Full Circle

**Hello! About those monthly updates...hehe. I wasn't working this week. Lucky, innit? :D**

**I was writing this listening to Mohombi - Bumpy Ride. It's a bit strange for the Chapter, but hey, I'm strange. XD**

* * *

**CHAPTER 26**

**The road to Traralgon**

**Regional Victoria**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

Church bells rang over the empty fields as ten o'clock struck and a white Bentley sped past the fields, making the cows, chewing on drying grass look up. Even this early, the sun was beating down, hot and dry over the Australian landscape and even with the air-conditioning on, the five agents in the car were still uncomfortably hot.

'Bloody hell," said John, unbuttoning his shirt one more button down and sighing as a cold wave of air hit him. Mitch had exchanged a shirt for a singlet and James had decided to skip putting any clothes on his upper torso altogether. Needless to say that they were getting a lot of looks from the few people they did see, through the expertly cleaned windows of the Bentley, as they drove down the empty, vast roads.

"Are we even close?" asked Lestrade, glad he had worn a T-shirt, as he glanced over at Sally, staring out the windows,

'We're still about an hour and a half away," Mitch replied letting go of the steering wheel altogether as he reached down to reveal a cask of soft drinks, "Want some?" he asked, "They're still cold," James growled about it not being alcoholic but took one anyway and passed it to the back seat, "Want one?" he asked Mitch and he nodded. John took his and passed the box back to the front. James opened it for Mitch who smiled and nodded to the holder to his left.

'So what exactly is the plan?" asked Sally, "We're just going to storm in there, guns raised and demand Sherlock back?"

"Of course not,' John said,

'Then what are we going to do?" Sally asked and the doctor frowned,

'Good question," he said,

'I was thinking," James started but Mitch cut him off with a laugh,

"Wait, you think?" his partner whacked him across the arm and Lestrade's heart jumped as the car swerved. John didn't even look troubled.

'Keep going," Sally said,

"Well, what if we say we're on holiday?"

"What?" John asked,

'Say we're on Holiday," James repeated,

'All of us?" Lestrade asked,

"Yeah,"

"And all of us came here without booking a house or anything?"

'Yeah, we're camping," James said, but he was starting to see the flaws in the plan,

"And not one of us remembered the tent?" asked Sally and James sighed,

'Fine. Alright. Shit plan. You think of something if you're all so damn smart."

"No problem," said Sally, She looked to all of them, "the three of us," she gestured to John, Lestrade and herself, 'Are carrying British passports, right?"

'Yeah," James said,

"Well, it's simple. We are from the British Embassy and you and Mitch have been chosen to escort us around. We're pains in your necks, but you live with it. It will allow us to go anywhere and let us see what's going on,"

"That's brilliant," John said, clapping Sally on the shoulder, and she smiled,

"It sounds a lot like the holiday idea," James grumbled, but he had to admit, it was a good plan,

"I agree. It could work," Mitch said, taking a right turn at the intersection up ahead. Silence fell on the car and just as Sally's eyes closed, Lestrade's tentative voice spoke up, 'Do we need posh accents?"

Every occupant in the car burst into laughter.

* * *

**Holding Room**

**Traralgon**

**Regional Victoria, Victoria,**

**Australia**

Sherlock wasn't finding anything funny as laughter floated in from outside his window. His head still hurt like hell and there was a growing ache in his stomach as he realised how hungry he was.

_Damn it, _Sherlock thought, kicking the bedpost to vent some of his frustration. _The least they could do was give me some water. _He sat up again and stared out the window. There was no one in his line of view and he sighed.

_Come on, John._ Sherlock thought, y_ou never leave me alone. Please don't start now._

* * *

**Traralgon**

**Regional Victoria, Victoria**

**Australia**

The pulled up on the main street and got out of the car. Mitch had swapped tops with John and he was now wearing the shirt while John was in the slightly-too-big singlet. Mitch had pulled his shirt on and the two Aussie agents stood to one side and Lestrade, John and Sally got out of the car. They decided to keep their real names.

"So, where are we?" said John looking around at the people walking by. Some of them gave friendly smiles at the group, who returned it,

'Traralgon," James said gesturing around, "One of the many regional towns in Victoria,"

"Lovely," said Sally, "Do you think we could get a drink somewhere nice and cool?" she asked,

'Don't see why not," James and Mitch took the lead and the three Brits followed behind,

"So, we're going to sit and enjoy a drink and try to get any information out of the people about newcomers?" Lestrade whispered to John,

"Pretty much,"

"That's a pretty…erm…"

"Crap plan?" John asked and Sally sighed,

"We know," she said, "But at the moment, it's all we got,"

* * *

As the agents walked into the local pub, Timothy and Larry stepped out of the Ute that had borrowed for their time in Australia,

"It's so bloody hot down here,"

'Why the boss would leave Ireland for this place, I don't know," Larry agreed, walking to the door of the local pub and pulling it open,

"When's he coming, anyway?" Timothy asked and Larry shrugged,

"Who knows? The man's breaking out of prison, after all," The two took a seat at the bar and ordered a couple of beers.

* * *

John, sitting at a table about two meters away from them, stared.

"John?" Lestrade asked,

"Those two, at about two o'clock," he said and Lestrade turned carefully to spot the two men, taking a long drink,

"What about them?" asked Sally, watching as Mitch and James brought back a tray of schooners,

"They said something…" John trailed off,

'What?"

'They said the boss is going to break out of prison,"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow, 'they could be talking about anyone,"

"But," John paused,

"It's something, right?" Sally asked, looking at Lestrade,

"What's something?" Mitch looked between the three of them,

"We might have a lead,"

"Already?" James groaned, "I haven't had a good drink in a week,"

No one paid him any attention.

* * *

Timothy turned around and spotted the group of five in the corner, "George!" he called and the bartender turned around, "Who's the new group?" he asked,

"They're British nationals," he said, "Diplomats," Timothy nodded.

'Why are they here?"

"Just touring, I guess," the man turned back to polishing the glasses,

"British?" Larry asked, keeping his voice low, despite the quiet hum in the pub that would disguise his words.

"Yeah,"

"Perhaps…" Timothy looked around at them, contemplating his words.

"What are the chances, that they'd end up here?" Larry asked, thinking along the same lines as his partner,

"But…how could they possibly know?" Tim asked. "He's not even been missing long enough for a missing person's report,"

'He's got a very rich partner," Larry said, "a man who, no doubt, is of great use to the British government,"

"I know. Faggot," Tim spat the word out with disgust and then turned back around, putting his back to them

"We should move him,

"We can't without the bosses permission," Larry said, "You know that as well as I do,"

"So what, we wait and see what happens?" Tim asked and Larry nodded,

"Yeah,"

"What happens when then find us?"

'If," Larry corrected and took a sip of the ice cold beer in front of him, "If they find us, Tim, we do what we do best," Finally, his partner relaxed a little,

'Alright, but I get to do the eliminating,"

'They're all yours, mate," Larry smiled into his beer.

* * *

"So you're thinking it's them?" John asked. The group had watched the two men from their seats, talking about everything except them, and about half an hour ago, they watched them leave and take the main road out of the town, probably for one of the outlying farmhouses.

"It's got to be," James said. While everyone was talking, James took it upon himself to get information out of the locals. 'Getting information' involved flirting with nearly every girl in town, and, amazingly, James actually managed to get enough information for suspicion to fall on the two men.

"Their names are Larry McKenzie and Timothy Baron," he said, as they climbed into the oven that called itself a car. Even the white paint didn't seem to help with the heat.

"Can you run them through the police database in England?"

'From here? No," Lestrade said, "But I can call a friend who can," He picked up his phone and dialled, waiting for the answer on the other line,

'Hello?"

"Anderson? What the hell are you doing with the boss's phone?"

'Lestrade?" The Forensic investigator 's voice went up an octave,

'Put the boss on," Lestrade ordered as Sally exchanged glances with John,

'What's he doing in the bosses office?" she whispered,

"I'm entirely sure that I don't want to know," John said back and Sally had to restrain her laughter as the boss answered and Lestrade shot them a glare,

"Hi, boss?"

'Lestrade?"

"Yeah,"

'Good to hear from you,"

"Yeah you too, sir,"

"I'm getting a feeling this isn't a how-are-you call,"

'Unfortunately, no," Lestrade said, wishing he would hurry up and let him get to the point,

"What is it then?"

"I need a favour,"

'Ask away, my boy," he said, and Lestrade grimaced while the others laughed,

"I wanted to know whether you could run some names through the database,"

'Sure. What are they?"

"Timothy Barron and Larry McKenzie,"

"No problem, give it ten minutes,"

"Ten minutes," Lestrade said, covering the mouthpiece and the others nodded.

They waited around and Lestrade was forced to endure ten minutes of the boss's questions.

How he was doing (fine, Thank you), What he was doing (sorry, classified), How Sally was (good), Who he was working with? (ex-army doctor), Was the doctor any good? (yes), Could he look at his x-rays when they got back? (Yes. Fine), had Sally found a man yet? (What? Erm…no.) And through all of this, everyone sat, quite amused by the whole situation.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the database pinged, "Here we are," the boss said and Lestrade waited. "Why don't I just send the information over?" he asked,

'That's fine, thankyou sir," said Lestrade,

'No problem, no problem, oh and Detective?"

'Yes, sir?"

"Don't forget the Christmas party! You're invited!" Lestrade rolled his eyes and hung up,

"He's sending it over now,"

"Good thing you got a blackberry," Sally said, red from laughing that much,

'What questions was he asking you?" John asked, and Lestrade rolled his eyes again,

'The man's a nutcase. I have no idea how to got to the top of the Yard hierarchy,"

"Right, that aside, who are we chasing?" Mitch asked as Lestrade's phone flashed and he looked down, opening the e-mail,

"Oh God," he groaned,

'What?"

"Listen," Lestrade took a deep breath and started reading,

"Timothy Barron, arrested 2008, for drugs, weapons dealing and transportation, found to be a part of elite crime syndicate lead by James Moriarty."

John felt like whacking his head into something. Or just whacking something. Either way.

"Larry McKenzie, arrested along with Timothy Barron for same charges. Both, however, are suspected of many murders and other elicit business and detectives have been looking for years for more information about them. They both were bailed out of prison by a mysterious source"

"Moriarty," Sally and John chorused,

"And never returned for their trials. Police have no idea where they are now, but suspect they are once again working for James Moriarty, also a wanted criminal,'

Lestrade looked up, 'we're in a lot of trouble,"

"Yeah," Sally said. The three Brits looked downcast while Mitch and James exchanged glances,

"Sorry," James said, "But who the bloody hell is James Moriarty?"

* * *

**Melbourne Airport, Tullamarine**

**Melbourne**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

The man at the centre of their discussion stepped off a private plane at Melbourne airport. He knew that a manhunt was going on right now in the UK for him, but they didn't know he had left the country an hour before they _noticed _he was missing and they didn't know that a man fitting their description was, right now, setting a bomb of in Glasgow to draw their attention there. They also didn't know that he had a very real Australian passport and had touched down moments ago to a bright and beautiful day.

With whether like this he could really work on a tan.

With a smile he walked into the main airport, flanked by guards and breezed his way through customs. "Mr. Carlton, right this way," one of the security staff said and led him out the front gates of the airport to a view that matched his mood, "Welcome to Australia,"

"Thankyou," The soft Irish lilt appeared and Moriarty climbed into the waiting, air-conditioned, Mercedes Benz, E-class.

"Where to, boss?" his driver said, looking into the rear-view mirror.

"I hear there's nice scenery to be gained in the regional parts of Victoria," he said, "Traralgon," The driver took off from the curb as a second car, filled with the security contingent followed behind.

Yes. Today was a beautiful day.

* * *

**There we go. **

**MORIARTY'S COMING! RUN! HIDE!**

**Or if you're a fan get pictures for autographs. Either way. :D  
**

**Aza**

**xoxo **


	27. Man in a black suit

**Heyas! How are you all? Good? That's good. :D Yes. Here we are. Another chapter...listen. Just do me a favour. Don't kill me at the end alright? I mean, with a dead author, you don't get any more chapters, now do you? :D**

**Carry on. **

**WARNING: Some foul language.**

* * *

**CHAPTER 27**

**Traralgon**

**Regional Victoria**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

John shifted slightly and grimaced as he realised the skin of his right hand was turning red – obviously, he forgot to cover it with sunscreen.

With Mitch at the wheel, they had driven for half an hour, following the general direction they had seen Tim and Larry take, hoping they were right. They had reached a fork in the road and had taken the left fork, using the digital map James had pulled up from the AFP database. There was a farmhouse the would be perfect for holding a person – isolated and abandoned in the 1950's, it was thought to be haunted, so it would keep most locals out.

Cresting a hill slowly, the road almost covered by grass and therefore not kicking up a dust cloud behind them, they spotted the old house, and, more importantly, the car that Larry and Tim had driven away in. Reversing and driving just below the top of the hill Mitch took them another three kilometres away from the road, and they found a perfect indent in the hill. it hid them from view on both left and right sides, and meant they could safely park the car there. Climbing out of the car and bringing the sunscreen with them, they had settled on top of the hill, Lestrade grateful for Sally's idea of buying five binoculars before they left.

For three hours now they had baked under the harsh sun, and still, the only movement they had seen was one of the men coming out to dump something in the bin and going back inside. They had set up a makeshift tent, but it could only fit four of them in, so they set up a rotation system.

For twelve minutes each, they would go to the top and keep an eye and then swap over. James had insisted on the odd number because twelve times five is sixty.

Everyone had looked at him a little differently after that.

John sighed as he entered the shade and Sally went out,

"Where the bloody hell is this Moriarty?" asked James,

"He'll come soon," said John, "give it some time. The man just broke out of jail,"

"Are you sure that storming the building is a good idea?" asked Lestrade, looking doubtfully at the hill as if he could see through it.

"Of course it is," said John, "There's five of us and four of them,":

"How's it four?" Mitch asked,

"Moriarty, his driver, Tim and Larry,"

"What if he's bringing an army with him?" James asked,

'He won't" Lestrade said,

'He's an arrogant bastard, he doesn't believe that anyone will come after him," James moved slightly and accidentally shifted some of his weight onto Lestrade,

"What are you doing?" the DI asked, and James flushed as he realised he was leaning against him. Lestrade really wouldn't have minded back home, but in these temperatures being _this_ close to them was uncomfortable, touching was damn near unbearable,

"Sorry," James said, moving again and Mitch and John chuckled,

'This is one fish you can't catch, my friend," the Aussie agent said and Lestrade felt himself go red as James chocked on the mouthful of water. John laughed as Sally made her way back,

"What are you laughing about?" The sergeant asked as she waited for Lestrade to move,

"Nothing," Lestrade said, getting up quickly and making his way to the crest. This brought a few more chuckles from the rest of the group leaving Sally to remind herself that men will never change.

* * *

The sun had disappeared over the hill, a beautiful sunset was casting a red glow on them, making them feel sleepy and warm and yet, there was still no sign of Moriarty below. "What's going on?" Mitch asked as James came back,

'Nothing. Same as last time you were up,"

'It's been four hours," said John, glad to escape the rather small confines of their tent and lie down, his back flat on the grass, staring up at the stars.

"I know," Sally said, lying next to him, enjoying the peaceful moment. Mitch and James stayed sitting, but they were outside the tent-of-sorts as well.

'Who's turn?" John asked,

"Mine," Mitch said, getting up and climbing to the top.

John smiled as the wind gently washed over him, soft and sweet, carrying the sounds of roosting birds and emerging wildlife. He was about to drift to sleep when a howl echoed through the evening and Sally jerked up straight, "Dingo?" she asked and John opened an eye to see the grin split James' face,

"No, no dingoes up here."

"Oh." Sally swallowed,

'Do you have any wild animals around here?" she asked Mitch, at the top of the hill had to stop himself from laughing as James responded,

"We have plenty of wild animals,"

Lestrade was curious as well – if not a little worried – sat up and looked at James,

"Do kangaroos attack people?" he asked, thinking about the descriptions he's heard.

"Sometimes," John closed his eyes again and settled down, trying not to smile. James was enjoying this a little too much,

"Will they be around here?" Sally asked, worry creeping back into her voice,

"Well they travel around in mobs. Probably," Sally and Lestrade exchanged a glance and were about to go on when Mitch's voice broke through,

'Oi! There are headlights! A car is pulling up!" John sat up and grabbed the binoculars, quickly followed by the others who lay down flat, with only their heads poking out. Thankfully, there was no light left to flash off the lens of the binoculars.

Johns' heart clenched painfully as the car door opened. Part of him wished it were Moriarty so they could get the bastard and lock him up for good, and part of him wished it weren't. Because then Sherlock would be safe. Because then he could yell at the detective for his stupidity and give him a bone crushing hug, and probably cry. If Sherlock ever brought that up, he would deny it vehemently.

It felt like John was shoved back in time as, out of the car stepped Jim Moriarty. Clad in a black suit only his face and hands were visible from this distance and he still walked with an arrogant step that made John's blood boil.

The five agents sat and watched as the Irish criminal walked into that house and all five got ready for an assault.

* * *

**Inside the farmhouse**

**Traralgon**

**Regional Victoria, Victoria**

**Australia**

Sherlock groaned as another stab of pain originating from his empty stomach hit him. This was obviously a new form of torture. Give him clean chambers, a lovely view, plenty of sunlight, then light as the sun set, oxygen, water – the door had opened at midday and before Sherlock could even get up and catch a glimpse it had shut, leaving a crate of bottles of the floor, filled with bottles of ice-cold water – but leave out the food.

He was starving. He supposed it didn't help that he didn't eat dinner because he had been sulking.

The detective cracked open an eyelid as the sound of engine cutting off reached his ears and voices, tones of welcome, reached his ears. "Must be the boss," he muttered to himself, wondering if they could hear him. Though, he doubted it, because he had yelled, an hour ago, that he was hungry and there was no response. He was seriously considering writing on the wall. A voice in his head told him that that was the hunger talking. Then it told him he was going crazy because hearing voices in your head was never a good thing. He was Sherlock bloody Holmes, for Christ's sake. He should, by now, be able to do something as simple as escape a prison.

_If I could just think straight_.

Whenever he tried, it was like trying to start the engine of a car with low petrol. It was slow and sluggish and came to an eventual stop. If he didn't know better he'd say he'd been drugged, but one would need food for that.

_It's only been happening since this afternoon…but…I didn't eat. I just need to think._

Sherlock sat up and took another drink. Well. It could be worse. He wasn't sure how, but John always told him to think positive.

* * *

Just outside the room, in the antechamber, Jim stared at the detective, taking yet another drink from the bottle of water water.

"Has the depressant been inserted into the water?" Moriarty asked, not glancing back at Larry,

'Yes boss, that's his second bottle. I don't think he's been able to think very clearly. He lies there, then he sits up as if remembering something then lies back down again." Moriarty smiled.

"Both of you may leave," Larry glanced back at Tim,

"Sir?"

"Leave. Take Timothy and go into town. Stay at the hotel tonight,'

"Sir…we may have some important information," Tim started but Moriarty cut him off, his eyes never leaving the screen on which Sherlock was clearly visible in the bright lights.

"Leave. Now," The two men looked at each other and decided it may be easier if they just listened to him. Walking quietly out of the room, they reached the front door and left the house, never looking back.

Jim sighed, relaxing. He knew his driver would stay in the bedroom and not come out until he was asked to. That left him alone with Sherlock. The grin that had been suppressed was finally let out and it almost hid the fading scar across his right cheek.

He walked to the bag on the table and exposed the plate inside, filled with some of the best crab he had ever eaten, from a little French place he had found on the way here. He knew Sherlock was hungry, and he also knew that the drugged water dulled his incredibly sharp senses. It would not have any lasting effect. Sherlock would only be brought down to a human level for a little while. Long enough for Moriarty to capture John without the detective guessing what he was up to and then really making the detective's life hell. From then on, all of Sherlock's attention would be on him and him alone. No more little pet messing things up.

He opened the door to Sherlock's room and almost _felt_ the detective sit up. There was a sharp intake of breath and Jim's eyes locked onto the consulting detective's.

There was silence in the room. The man dressed in black in one corner of the room and the detective, sitting on the bed, trying to get his mind to figure out _how the bloody hell this happened._

"Hello Sherlock," Jim said, shutting the door behind him,

"Moriarty,"

"Really, Sherlock? Last names are so formal," He walked to the table and put the crab down, his back to Sherlock.

Just as he expected the detective leapt up and attempted a choke-hold on him, but he was a fraction slower than normal. Jim tuned as Sherlock came at him, and stopped him in his tracks, one pushing against the other. They were locked together before the lack of food and energy started to take its toll of Sherlock – and Jim Moriarty knew it.

It was a second more before Sherlock lost his footing and Jim pushed him back, causing him to back-peddle and fall onto the bed, panting, anger painting his usually pale skin a light pink colour, a lock of his usually unruly hair falling into his face. The psychopath cocked his head to the side,

"An entirely ravishing look, Sherlock," he said and turned his back again, breaking a piece of the crab off, as he heard what might have been 'fuck off' from the detective. He ignored it.

"But I think you might need to eat first," he turned around and looked at Sherlock, who stared back with those cold, cold grey eyes of his.

* * *

**Ta-da. Right...is there an order in which you decide to kill or me, or have you all spared me my life? **

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	28. Trapped

**Quick updates appear to be on the menu these days. Here's the next bit. Enjoy!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 28**

**Traralgon**

**Regional Victoria, **

**Victoria**

**Australia**

John didn't know if he was angry at the situation, worried for Sherlock, scared that he may never see Sherlock again or frustrated that it had to be them. Every single time.

As the group neared the house on the side with absolutely no windows, the doctor pushed his feelings to the back of his mind. He had to focus, dammit. This was why they never sent you in if you were emotionally attached in any defence force or police force. You could jeopardise the whole operation.

The five agents snuck around the side of the building, with Mitch on point. The rough stones were still warm from the day's heat, and the moon, far above was flooding the ground with moonlight. Their shadows rippled against the wall.

All were silent and all knew that if this failed, tracking Sherlock, with Moriarty involved, would be damn near impossible. _In fact, he could die,_ John thought and had to stop the panic that was threatening to overwhelm him. A hand on his shoulder made him turn around to see Lestrade's worried expression,

'Focus," he said, "You're going to be vital to getting Sherlock back," John stared into the DI's eyes a moment longer,

'You're right," he whispered back, "I'm sorry,"

"Don't be," James said, turned around to face them and Mitch turned around, 'you're allowed to be worried,"

'Just don't let it effect your skills," Mitch added, coming back to tell them what he's seen, "There's a barred window around the corner. I suggest everyone get ready,"

John nodded and glanced back to Sally who gave him a reassuring smile.

* * *

**Inside the House**

**Traralgon, Regional Victoria**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

The clouds shifted above as a breeze raced across the fields and swept into the valley the house was situated in. Still sitting on the bed and eating purely because he was close to starving, Sherlock stared at Moriarty. "Can we at least close the window?" he asked,

"Of course," Moriarty reached into his pocket and Sherlock suspected there was a remote in there, and as he watched a shutter came down on the window, but just before, Sherlock was sure he saw a shadow move, around the corner of the house. He was also sure that Moriarty didn't see, because Sherlock was almost flat against the wall, and it was this position that gave him the vantage point.

The detective turned back to the piece of crab, refusing to get excited about anything. It could have been a trick of the light. He knew as well as anyone else that rescue in this situations was very, very unlikely

_John's an unlikely person, though._

Sherlock almost smiled.

"No small talk, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked, breaking him out of his reverie, watching the detective sitting opposite him very closely,

"Small talk would mean that I wanted to be here," Sherlock replied,

"Oh, but you do, Sherlock."

"Really?" the detective asked, "Tell how that works,"

"Well, you see, I am much better company that your pet." Sherlock had to stop himself from replying. Moriarty was baiting him and he knew it. He tried not to listened as the man continued, "I mean, yeah, sure, he's alright for a little while," the psychopaths eye's glinted as he cocked his head to the side, 'And yeah, I suppose he's relatively funny. In a pathetic, loyal sort of way," Sherlock could feel the anger bubbling inside, "But in the end," Moriarty's dark eyes locked onto Sherlock's grey ones, "He's just an easy fu-"

Before he could even finish his sentence, Sherlock was off the bed and on top of Moriarty, the force of the jump splintering the chair underneath them and knocking all the breath for Moriarty's body. Sherlock landed two punches into Moriarty's side and went for a knee to the groin, but Moriarty rolled them over, showing surprising strength for a man who didn't like to get his hands dirty and punched Sherlock across the jaw, knocking his head backwards into the wooden floor with a thump.

Sherlock managed to get another punch in and Moriarty gasped with pain as Sherlock's fingers dug into a nerve cluster in his shoulder, but the detective had been blinded by anger – always a disadvantage in a fight, Moriarty thought – and didn't notice that the psychopath had reached into his pocket and brought out a taser. He flicked it on high just as Sherlock caught the movement and before the detective could move, Jim brought it down on his arm and Sherlock screamed out as pain ripped through his body before the light disappeared and he wished John were here.

Sighing as Sherlock went limp, Moriarty wiped a drop of blood from his lip.

* * *

From outside the window, everyone heard the scream and John gripped the gun in his hand so hard, he was afraid he might accidentally hit the trigger.

'We need to get inside, now," Sally said, "That was Sherlock's voice,"

"Around the front," Mitch said and none of them bothered to be subtle, running at full pelt. They didn't know what Moriarty was doing to Sherlock. They raced up the front stairs and Mitch stood in front of the door. He held up three fingers and the others nodded towards him, adrenaline racing through their bodies, their breaths coming short and sharp. They knew there was no one in there except Moriarty, Sherlock and the driver. They could do this.

When the last finger went down, Mitch and John kicked the door simultaneously and it fell in, off it's hinges. The five officers burst into the hallway and a door to the right opened to reveal the startled guard, but John had eyes only for the man standing at the end of the corridor, caught like a deer in headlights, but emitting the aura of a man in complete control. Sally drew a sharp breath and Lestrade wanted to shoot oh so very badly.

"John, Greg, Sally," Moriarty said, "you've brought friends, how nice," The shadows around him seemed to blur as John tried to see an outline of his figure, but couldn't see anything in the dim light coming from the open bedroom door of the driver.

"Give us Sherlock, or we'll shoot," John said, raising the gun and Moriarty laughed,

'I think you're in more danger than I am," he replied and John glanced over to Lestrade who shrugged,

"What are you talking about?" Sally called out,

"Why don't all of you look up?"

Knowing they probably shouldn't, everyone in the hallway glanced up, in time to see the lasers flash above them. Before anyone could move a solid steel door dropped down behind them, making them spin around and then back to face Moriarty,

"What the hell is this, Moriarty?"

"A trap," he replied simply and pressed a button on the remote of his.

He watched with pleasure as all five armed and healthy agents collapsed to the floor after a pulse of blue light.

There was an echoing silence in the hallway and Moriarty tried to calm himself down. He was angry. Very angry. They would pay for their interruption but at least now he didn't have to go and look for Johnny boy. The idiot walked right into his trap all for dear Sherlock. He was an idiot. _What_ Sherlock saw in him, Moriarty was not sure.

"Take them to the cellars," he said to the driver, who nodded and did as he was told. Moriarty glanced back at the pathetic idiots on the floor.

_Oh yes. They will pay._

* * *

**Mwahahahaha.**

**MWAAHAHAHA!**

***ahem***

**Nice and evil there. Tell me, did I capture the essence of Moriarty well enough? Hope so.**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	29. Let the game begin

**Look. No-one dead this chapter. You can put your shovels, knives, forks or any other sharp implements down. **

* * *

**CHAPTER 29**

**SIS HQ**

**Vauxhall Cross, London**

**England **

**UK**

Chief Francis Stone slammed the phone down for the eighth time as there was no response from his agents in Australia. Where the hell were they? _Watson has a meeting with Howell tonight!_

Stone fell into his leather chair and spun around so that he was staring out at the Thames and the city that spread from its banks, rain lashing the city and blurring outline far below. He sighed and picked up the phone again. He'd call AFP HQ in Sydney and see what they had to say. Maybe they could shed some light on where the four English agents and their two Aussie 'minders' had gotten to.

* * *

**Traralgon**

**Regional Victoria**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

The ceiling came into focus slowly and the sunlight streamed through the barred windows and splashed off the light blue walls. The doctor blinked for a moment as he got his bearings and tried to remember what had happened. He was about to close his eyes to ease the pain in his entire body when suddenly he remembered Sherlock's scream and then the sight of Moriarty at the end of the hall and then…nothing.

He sat up slowly, expecting to find the others here, but he was alone on the huge master bed. He looked at the walls for an escape and spotted a door to the right. He got up slowly and stumbled, more than walked to the door. He went for the handle, expecting it to be locked but was pleased when he found that it turned easily. Instead of a corridor as he'd hoped – somewhat foolishly, he supposed – it was a bathroom, beautiful, clean and shiny. The walls were a painfully sparkling white and the sink, shower and bathtub was complete with gilded handles.

_Bloody Moriarty._

John expected the tiles to be cold, but hey were warm, probably heated from underneath. He went to the window overlooking a golden field, the grass swaying in the morning breeze, and found that it was just glass and wondered for a moment if Moriarty was that careless. He was about to see if he could lift the window up when he caught sight of the red laser beams that criss-crossed the window.

He grimaced and backed away and out again, back into the bedroom. Looking around the room he could see no other door and even after he ran his hand along the walls, he could feel no cracks or joints. Giving up, the doctor returned to the bed and lay back down, wishing his pounding headache – probably caused by that laser burst that could well have killed him – would just bugger off.

In fact, he wished Moriarty would just bugger off and jump of the nearest cliff, but that wasn't going to happen anytime soon. Rolling over, John closed his eyes and decided he could at least get some more sleep, as he may need his energy soon.

* * *

**Underneath the Westgate bridge**

**Melbounre**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

All four agents woke up at exactly the same time. A car horn honked from somewhere nearby and Sally, Greg, Mitch and James jerked awake like they'd been poked simultaneously.

All were lying flat on their backs.

Greg was the first to sit up, "What…" he held his head at it pounded and stared at their surroundings and groaned as him muscles ached from spending a long, obviously cold, night on the ground.

Sally looked around them as she registered the fact that they were no longer in the country, 'We're under a bridge," she said, looking at the other three men, who were staring around and trying not to groan too loud,

'So we are," said Lestrade looking around, thinking something was missing – and then it clicked,

'Where's John?" That quickly brought everyone back to themselves,

'Shit," Mitch said, 'That Moriarty guy got us last night, remember?" he said, standing up and almost falling back down again. He offered a hand to Sally, who took it and watched as James and Lestrade got to their feet,

"We…need to find John and Sherlock," said Lestrade, swaying slightly as the blood rushed to his head. He looked up.

They were underneath a bridge, that looked to be several hundred metres tall, and next to them, a river flowed, deep and dark, probably able to conceal a body. Lestrade just thanked God that it wasn' t their bodies floating in the river.

'Where are we?" asked Sally, the shadow of the bridge keeping everything very cool underneath here and making her shiver. James glanced up again,

"I think we're under Westgate bridge. How the hell did we get down here?" He looked around, spinning in a full circle and shivering slightly when a burst of breeze, cooled in the giant shadow cast by the bridge, hit them.

"There's a ramp," said Mitch, nodding to it,

"It's at forty-five degrees," said Lestrade, looking at it in despair,

"And we have to walk up it," said Sally, making for it, stumbling slightly as her knee buckled,

"This isn't fair," Lestrade mumbled as he followed Sally up,

"Look at it this way," James said, "all that army training will come in useful,"

Lestrade could have punched the man.

* * *

By the time they had reached the top, it was mid-morning and the sun was blazing down onto the dirt road they had been walking on. They were tired, exhausted, dirty and hungry and cars here were zipping past them at frankly alarming speeds. No one was going to stop to help them,

"We need to call HQ," said Sally, leaning against one of the giant cement poles that held the bridge up, feeling horrendously dirty,

"Yeah," Lestrade's muscles were begging for a respite and he slumped to the ground at Sally's feet,

"There's only one problem with that suggestion," said Mitch,

'What is it?" Sally asked,

"Does anyone have a mobile phone?"

Lestrade and Sally both patted themselves down, looking for their phones, as did the Aussie agents,

"They must have taken it," Lestrade said,

"Goddamn," James muttered

'So how to we get out of here?" Mitch nodded to the service lane,

"We walk," he said and took the lead as the other three followed, none of them even having the strength to complain.

* * *

**Traralgon**

**Regional Victoria**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

Moriarty stared at the screens and had to congratulate himself. John in one room, Sherlock in the other – it's like all his Christmas's had come at once.

John was sleeping, but Sherlock was pacing in nervous agitation. If he kept it up he was going to wear a hole in the plush carpet. It cost a fair bit, too.

Moriarty got to his feet. All night, he had stayed awake, planning and had arrived at the perfect plan. A year and two months ago, he had told Sherlock he would burn the heart right out of him.

Now, finally, the psychopath was looking at Sherlock's heart, sleeping a little troubled on the master bed, his long-ish hair falling into his eyes, practically holding his heart in his hand. One move and Sherlock could be metaphorically, dead. At least the part of him that was human would.

Moriarty smiled. The plan was a simple one. Release Sherlock and then kill John, but record it all. Send the tape to the detective, and he would be destroyed. Then Moriarty would have all his attention, finally.

The Irishman could have almost danced. He looked back at Sherlock – it was almost as thought he knew that John was here, the way he couldn't sit still. It was adorable, really.

Moriarty looked back at John. Before he killed him, he might have a look at him. A real, good look. There had to be something about the man that made Sherlock stay for so long. That made Sherlock love. Perhaps, Moriarty could discover this? It would be fun.

He crossed his arms over his chest.

_Yes, __I __could __keep __him, __and __if __he __were__ '__dead__' __then __no-__one __would __come __after __him. __Not __even __Sherlock._

Moriarty sat back down in front of the screens. His plan had just got more interesting. More fun. He was going to break Sherlock to a thousand small pieces and then some. The man wouldn't be a man by the time he was through with him.

This was his best plan yet. Tomorrow, he was taking John and leaving.

See, he had left the other agents alive for a reason. It wouldn't be any fun if they were dead. When people lost someone they loved they were even more fun to play with. It was decided, then.

Jim Moriarty walked to his room and pulled out his suitcase, in it, two Westwood suits and shoes made especially for him. He could feel a new game and it was even better than the last one they had played. Someone was going to die.

* * *

**It is seriously way too much fun writing as Moriarty. Really.**

**My apologies to Phoebe who seems to have had a mental breakdown after my last chapter. I do that a lot...**

**I also believe the line to kill me is getting longer...hmm...that could be a problem.**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	30. Deals and Plans

**And another instalment. See, I decided that during exams, I'm going to have no time to update, so I'm making up for it in advance. Everyone smile now!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 30**

**Outside the Sofitel Hotel**

**Melbourne**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

The sun was just rising by the time they arrived at hotel and John was unconscious, positioned so that he was resting against Moriarty, the man looking all too content with his current position. He waited for a moment as the driver got out and opened the door to let him out, 'The Sofitel Hotel, Sir," he said, holding the door opened and Moriarty got out of the car,

"Bring him inside," he said, nodding towards John and the driver nodded.

Moriarty went ahead and into the lobby of the grand, relatively new hotel. He walked to the front desk,

"Hi," he said, to one of the women sitting there,

"Hi," she glanced up at him, 'what can I get you, sir?" he looked down at her name tag,

"Phoebe, I need to talk to the owner," he said and dark eyes widened in surprise,

"The owner?" she asked,

"Yeah, It's about a room for me," he glanced behind to see the driver carrying the limp John in with him, 'and my companion," She raised her eyebrows,

"He had far too much to drink last night, and passed out. I had great difficulty getting him home," she nodded, "now, about he rooms,"

"We have plenty of rooms-" he cut her off before she could finish,

"No, you don't understand. My name is James, James Moriarty," she looked at him blankly and his patience wore thin,

"Call him," he said and she jumped, reaching for the phone. She dialled the number. As soon as it rang, she said,

"Mr. Howell, sir?"

"Yes?"

"I have a James Moriarty here to see you, he says it's something about a room," Moriarty watched with satisfaction as the girl paled as Howell obviously threatened her, "Yes-yes sir," she said and put the phone down,

"Go right up to the penthouse," she handed him a key, "Give this to the man in the lift,"

"Thank you," Moriarty took the key and walked to the elevator, his driver following behind.

The lift rose swiftly and the door opened smoothly to reveal the penthouse door. "Thankyou," Moriarty said as to the porter and turned around. Knocking once, he walked into the apartment to see Howell fixing his tie,

"James," he said, walking forwards,

"Stuart!" Moriarty extended his hand towards him and shook hands, while Howell lead him into the adjacent room, where there were plush furnishings.

"Please have a seat," They both sat down while the driver remained standing. Howell looked up,

"You've brought me something?" Howell asked,

"More like someone," Moriarty said, and gestured for the driver to put John down.

Gently, he laid him on the floor and Moriarty waved him out,

"You can go back downstairs," Howell said, nodding to the door, "there's plenty of food and drink in the restaurant on level one," The driver nodded once and left, never saying a word.

"It's so hard to find good drivers these days," Moriarty said and Howell nodded,

"I know, I've been through several in the last six months,"

"They always blab to the police," Moriarty said, "them and their damn consciences," Howell laughed as yet another door opened and a waiter carrying a tray walked in. They waited for him to set the tray down and leave before Howell addressed the matter of the unconscious man on the floor.

"Who's he?" Howell asked,

"He's a British agent, here to spy on you," Howell almost chocked on his drink,

"What?"

"You heard me," Moriarty took a sip of the brandy and sighed in delight, "delicious, always did have a fine choice, Stuart,"

"Never mind that," the tycoon snapped, 'how did you find out?'

"You asked me to," Moriarty said, waiting for the penny to drop. It was another second until it did,

"Pierre Mannu?" Howell gasped and Moriarty nodded, picking up a strawberry and biting into it as Howell absorbed this information,

"But…that's not possible," he said and Moriarty laughed,

"Anything's possible,"

"All his street credit checked out,"

'He's probably working with MI6," Moriarty said, "You're information was completely correct, just sourced from the wrong people,"

"Goddamn," Howell put the glass down and drew his gun, but Moriarty placed a placating hand on its barrel,

'Wait," he said,

"For what? The man's a traitor,"

"I will buy him off you," said Moriarty, "Twenty million, in gold, by the end of this week," Moriarty's eyes were shining and Howell cocked his head,

'You'll buy him? What for?" He lowered the gun, as Moriarty chuckled darkly,

"He's an old acquaintance. I owe him a little something," Howell smiled,

"Ah. I see," he nodded, "well, this puts a definite damper on my London infiltration plans,"

"Sorry," said Moriarty,

"Don't apologise," said Howell, picking his glass up again, forcing himself to calm down, "twenty million is quite enough compensation. I will spare his life,"

"I should think so," said Moriarty, looking over at John, his chest rising and falling gently. They were silent for a minute when Howell looked over to Moriarty,

"Don't get me wrong," he said, tilting his glass from side to side, watching its contents move briefly, 'it's just, I don't trust you,"

"That's fair enough," Moriarty replied, raising his glass as if in toast,

"I'll keep him until the end of the week,"

"Where? I want him in perfect condition," Moriarty stared at Howell and the man laughed,

'I'll be keeping him here. Five star food, and the building itself acts as a prison because you can't use the lift without a card and there's no other exit. He'll be in perfect condition," Moriarty considered for a second,

"Alright. That'll be fine."

He reached into his coat and pulled out a file, "This will give you all the information you need about him. Makes quite the interesting read. The psychopath stood up, "Well, I have other matters to deal with while I'm here, so, I really must get going," Howell smiled and got to his feet as well,

'I have no doubt," he showed Moriarty to the door, "I hope all you other business matters go well,"

"Thankyou," Moriarty walked outside and Howell followed,

'Drop by for a tea, alright?"

'No problem," Moriarty shook Howell's hand as the lift arrived,

"See you soon,"

"Yes," Moriarty stepped into the lift and Howell watched as the door closed. He turned around and walked back into the apartment and spent a minute appraising the man on his couch. His golden locks seemed to shine in the early morning light that was just seeping into the apartment through the panoramic windows and the sun-kissed skin seemed a little paler than perhaps it should be. Must be the drugs in his system.

"Aren't you the interesting little bugger?" he asked, walking towards the other couch that faced the windows. He sat down and pulled the papers out of the file.

"Dr. John Watson, retired army doctor, now under the employ of Francis Stone, SIS, UK," Howell felt a surge of hatred.

Stone. That arsehole. As if he didn't cause him enough losses every year. Deciding that for the good of his blood pressure, he should probably take a break, Howell walked into his bedroom and glanced once at Sophie, asleep on the bed before walking into the shower and closing the door gently, deciding that if John woke up before he was done, there was nowhere for him to go.

* * *

**St Kilda Police HQ**

**Melbourne**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

Lestrade sipped the terrible coffee and stared, bored, at the Chief.

He had gone as red as a tomato when they told him they had followed a lead to Traralgon and found Sherlock, held by their old enemy Moriarty. The man almost had an aneurysm when he heard the name.

He then proceeded to yell at them while dialling for Stone because apparently, he had been bombarded with calls from the UK embassy asking where their agents were. He had stayed up all night, trying to get in contact, and turned up nothing every time.

Mitch and James had been sent away to be yelled at by _their_boss an hour ago.

Lestrade sighed and moved, exchanging a glance with Sally as they listened to the Chief rant and rant about how careless this was, especially because they had lost their other agent – John. Lestrade's stomach clenched every time he thought about it because if anything happened to John, because they were not more careful –

"DI LESTRADE!" Lestrade snapped back to attention as Stone's voice echoed through the speakers and he looked to the Chief who was staring at the phone like it was a time bomb.

"Yes, boss?" he said and, on the other end, Stone snorted at use of the term 'boss',

"When was the last time you saw Sherlock?" he asked,

"I told you, it was two nights ago, when he stormed out of the apartment," Lestrade said,

"Yes, and then you heard him scream?" Lestrade winced as the memory flashed through his mind,

"Yes, we all did," Sally answered for him, "we ran around the front of the house and broke down the door…and then…nothing. We remember nothing after that."

"Except a blue light," Lestrade added and Sally nodded,

"Blue light?" The incredulous tone in Stone's voice radiated through the speakers

"Yeah, I can't remember from what, though," Sally replied and Stone sighed,

"Now you're seeing UFO's," he muttered and Sally frowned,

"No, we're not,"

'It doesn't matter," the Chief stepped in, "what matters is that two British agents are missing, and both of them are connected to James Moriarty. We are in trouble,"

'Thankyou for pointing out the obvious," Lestrade muttered and received a glare in return,

"We can forget Howell," Stone's voice said, over the intercom, "What we need to think about right now is Moriarty. He's the main threat,"

"Too right," the Chief said, "I'll have my people send out a BOLO,"

"Right," Stone said, "Lestrade, Donovan, I want both of you to return to the hotel and be my base. Chief, I want _everything_ reported to these to agents. Your team takes its orders from mine," The chief didn't even bother with the customary dubious glance that should have been aimed at the agents.

"No problem, Stone," he said and Lestrade was sure that the MI6 agent was nodding his head, sitting in his office, on another freezing day in England while they had he air conditioner on down under and didn't want to go outside for fear of melting.

"And Lestrade,"

'Sir?" the DI leant forwards

'You report back to me if you find anything interesting,"

'Yes sir," Lestrade said and the line went dead.

The chief put the phone back into its original position.

'It's going to look a little odd having that many people walk in and out of the hotel,"

'We'll use phones," said Sally,

"No, they can be intercepted," Lestrade said,

"Exactly," the Chief said, "You can operate out of here. My office. It will make everything easier. My organised crime unit is at your service and if you need any more police members, the entire Victorian Police force is yours, as is the tactical response unit" he got to his feet as they gaped at him,

"If you don't get your agents back, I'm as good as gone." He stared at them, "Get your agents back, get Moriarty and get out, you've caused more than enough trouble,"

With those as his final words, he walked out of the office and shut the door behind him. Lestrade looked at Sally,

"Get Mitch and James?" she asked and he nodded,

'Yep. We're going to need raid that place in Traralgon again. I doubt Moriarty will be there, but he might have left some evidence,"

"Yes boss,"

* * *

**Traralgon**

**Regional Victoria**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

Sherlock woke up to the room again to find several boxes of non-perishable items in the room, and about twenty litres of water. He also found that the south wall of his room was missing and it opened onto another room, with, what he was sure, was an ensuite. It was flooded wit sunlight as well.

For what felt like the hundredth time he sat up slowly and winced as he moved his arm, still stinging from the taser that Moriarty used to knock him out cold.

'Bastard," Sherlock muttered, rubbing his arm as he got to his feet. He looked around and found another suit – Westwood, he noted. The bastard did have impeccable taste – waiting for him with a note pinned on. Getting to his feet, he walked over and picked it up.

_Sherlock,_

_Sorry to have to taser you like that. It's not my favourite way of dealing with people but you were getting a little too feisty._

_While you were out, guess who came to visit?_

_Your pet, Johnny! He's looked so adorable with that gun pointed at me. It almost looked too big for him. _

_But__jokes__aside,__really,__I__am__sorry__about__the__taser.__You__know__I__had__Johnny__next__door__to__you,__while__you__were__unconscious__**and**__while__you__were__pacing.__He__'__s__really__so__…__angelic__while__he__sleeps,__isn__'__t__he?__But__you__would__know__all__about__that._

_I have him with me now, Sherlock, and your other little friends, Greg, Sally, and those two Aussies, Mitch and James, I believe, they've been taken away. So sad, really, to break the gang up. It would have been fun watching you work together. Like real police._

_Don't worry yourself, Sherlock. I'm only going to make him scream – in pain. Stop thinking dirty – a little bit .Not too much. It gets boring after a little while._

_He'll be dead before he knows what hit him. _

_Jim._

Sherlock stared at the note then crumpled it up into a ball, anger racing through his veins along with the blood. 'I'm only going to make his scream a little bit'; those words were running around his mind, echoing.

_John_, Sherlock thought, and it was like a clamp was suddenly on his heart. Squeezing painfully tight, making it hard to breathe, blurring his vision, giving him a pounding headache.

Turning around, he walked blindly, his every breath loud in his ears, his heart thudding in his chest.

He stopped in front of the crates and kicked, screaming in anger and kicking again, and again. The crate and food inside lying in pieces, Sherlock went to the bed and sat down, pulling his legs up to his chest and letting his head fall against the wall. His closed his eyes and forced himself to calm down. To think.

He would find John and Moriarty and then he would tear Moriarty limb from limb. There wasn't going to be a piece left to put in prison.

Jim Moriarty took what Sherlock loved the most, what Sherlock needed, as much as he needed the air he breathed.

Jim Moriarty was as good as dead.

* * *

**All done with the broody stuff.**

**Now...onto some action...maybe a little...wait no. I'll let you wait until next chapter. :D**

***shivers* I hate Moriarty.**

**Az**

**xoxo**


	31. Lost and Found

**Hey everyone! Here's the next Chapter. No-one's hurt yet. :P**

* * *

**CHAPTER 31**

**Sofitel Hotel**

**Melbourne**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

John woke slowly but found it was very hard to open his eyes. He lay still for a moment, listening to the sounds around him.

_This __isn__'__t __natural__…_he thought, _I __should __not __feel __so __tired __after __sleeping._ He realised with a pang that he had been drugged or been hit with a laser again. He really didn't like being kidnapped. Recently, ever since he met Sherlock, it was turning into a common occurrence. Even as he lay there, wondering what drugs, exactly, he had in his system; he knew that he wouldn't give up the time spent with Sherlock for anything.

With great effort, he managed to open his eyes to the gentle light of evening. He stared up at the ceiling for a moment and sighed. He hated waking up and not knowing where he was before he met Sherlock and he didn't like it any more now.

Wondering whether letting whoever had him _this_ time – probably Moriarty, if he thought about it – John sat up extremely slowly, blood rushing to his head and his world spinning before his now focused eyes were met by the icy glare of a black haired woman, sitting at the other end of the bed, looking annoyed that her place was taken.

John let himself take in the view that was available from here, at the glass wall that was letting all the light in and the fact that they were extremely high up, looking away from the girl and thinking that it would be nice to wake up to a smile.

'Are you going to stay there or are you actually going to move?" the girl spoke up, her dark eyes staring at John. He jumped a little, "Erm…well…where are we?" he asked, saying the first question that came to his head, a little surprised that she asked him the question, "Penthouse Suite, Sofitel Hotel," he replied.

Sophie titled her head to the side and wondered why her idiot of a husband let other idiots into the house. This one was a little smaller than they usually were, but though he had been unconscious, he didn't reek of alcohol as a lot of them did. Stuart told her to watch him, so she did. He hadn't so much as rolled over all night.

"Who are you?" John asked, looking at the woman,

"Sophie Howell," John tried not to let the shock show,

"So this is…'

"Stuart Howell's place, yes," she said, "why are you here?" she asked, cutting right to the chase. John always loved a little subtlety.

"I don't actually know," John said, finally managing to get a full sentence out with hesitating and looking like an idiot. He had obviously lot use of some of his mental faculties over the last twenty-four hours.

He thought back to what happened – the last thing he could remember was Moriarty.

Silence fell as John pondered his thoughts.

Sophie watched as the little man put things together, not because she had nothing else to do, but because she wanted to know who _he_ was as well.

John furrowed his brow as he thought, _I__'__m __in __the __city,__at __least,_ he looked at Sophie, _and __the __only __reason __I __could __think __Howell __would __have __me, __is __that __he__'__s __working __with __Moriarty._

"Who are you?" Sophie asked, parroting his earlier question. He looked up from his examination of the wedding ring still on his finger, something he had worn for so long now he had forgotten the little golden band's existence,

"Pierre Mannu," he said, and she let out derisive snort, that on her delicate face, John thought, looked a little out of place,

"My husband said that was a fake name. What's your real name?" John stared at her in surprise before relenting,

"Dr. John Watson," he said,

"I see," she pulled her cardigan tighter around herself, 'Well, doctor, I repeat, why are you here?"

"Because I'm being held captive." Sophie stared at him for a moment,

"What?" she asked, looking like she didn't know that particular piece of information. It was comforting to know that he wasn't the only one left in the dark.

"I'm being held captive here," John repeated, "I believe you husband is working with world renowned criminal Jim Moriarty," he expected an immediate denial from her but had to suppress his surprise, for the third time in so many minutes, as she merely got to her feet,

"Of course," she muttered, "Not quite sure what else I expected," she seemed to be talking to herself, so John decided not to reply.

Instead, he got up and walked, a little unsteadily, around to the windows. Under any other circumstances he would have laughed at the amazing view available from up here. The city stretched out, across from him, the buildings getting smaller as they progressed outwards, and the people walking on the streets, despite the early hour, looked absolutely tiny.

The doctor turned around and walked to the bedroom door, pulling it open. He was about to walk into the lounge room when Sophie called his name,

"John!" she said, her voice almost timid. He turned,

"Yes?" he asked, noticing that she was actually wearing very little as got a full look at her standing up. Her entire outfit appeared to just be the cardigan and a very short pair of short-shorts.

"Do you like my husband?" she asked, her dark eyes penetrating his light brown. He considered for a minute,

"No," he replied and she nodded,

"Well…there's breakfast in the dining room, you're probably hungry,"

Now that she did mention it, John realised he was starving, not just hungry. "Food would be good," he said and for the first time, a small smile graced her features, directed at John, "Follow me," She brushed past John, still standing in the doorway and John could have sworn he heard her swear as her arm touched his chest. Storing that information away for later use, John followed her to the dining room.

The presidential suite was _huge_. John was sure 221b Baker Street could easily fit in here twice over. The ceilings were arched and the warm lighting made everything look so homey and shiny – all at the same time. John raised an eyebrow at the long dining table, the end nearest to them filled with more food that Sherlock ate in a week. John's stomach rumbled as a reminder to hurry up and eat something.

He sat down, wincing as an all over pain told him he was getting too old to be kidnapped and…well…kidnapped. He wasn't entirely sure what exactly they were going to do with him afterwards.

John lifted two pancakes of their platter and put them onto his own plate. Pouring a healthy amount of maple syrup on top, he dug in, the delicious food melting in his mouth,

'Good?" Sophie asked and John nodded

'Bloody amazing," he muttered through a mouthful and Sophie had to stop herself from laughing. She couldn't trust the little man – _his __name__'__s __John__…__don__'__t __think __he__'__d __like __to __know __I __refer __to __him __as the little man...__ –_ just yet.

She picked up an apple and bit into it, relishing the sweetness and watched John plough through another four pancakes. Before she allowed her hopes to rise, she squashed them. _You __don__'__t __know __who __he __is, __he __might __not __want __to __help._ She looked at him a moment more, _but __maybe__… __he __could._

* * *

**Traralgon**

**Regional Victoria**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

Sherlock chewed a mouthful of tender chicken, stored in a freezer tub that Moriarty _kindly_ left him, and wished that he had more than a microwave to heat it up. Sherlock had showered a while ago and changed into the suit, deciding that if he was going to wait to be rescued, for he was certain that Lestrade and Sally would be in here, guns blazing, complete with a small army, he may as well be comfortable. And damn was this midnight black, tailor made (Sherlock did not want to think how Moriarty got his measurements) suit was comfortable.

"Come on, Lestrade," said Sherlock, staring out of the window as the first rays of light that spread over the fields, tuning them a golden red, grew stronger, "You've never failed to barge in before, why start now?"

Sherlock sighed and wished he had never left that damn apartment, and wished that John had never made him angry and wished that he would stop wishing because they were completely illogical and born of a very, very boring couple of hours. Sherlock felt as if his prison was taunting him, wanting him to find a way out of here. It wasn't that he hadn't tried, by the gods, he had tried and tried and tired. Nothing was working, the windows didn't break, the bars didn't bed, the bed leg wouldn't snap off and the new chair refused to so much as chip. The microwave needed to be welded open and the showerhead stayed stuck on the wall. The taps refused to be screwed off and the toilet may as well have been carved out of the tile it sat on.

There was. No. Way. Out.

Sighing in irritation that Moriarty had literally thought of everything, Sherlock sat back down on the bed before lying down, trying to think of one thing Moriarty had not already done.

When the sounds of sirens finally alerted Sherlock, it was mid afternoon and the detective had build himself a house of chicken bones, stripped clean by him. The bones were actually standing up in the abstract shape of a house when Sherlock got to his feet and ran to the bars to see a convoy of trucks on the main road. Thanking whatever God existed above, Sherlock went back to the bed and sat down. He had deduced, a while ago, that Moriarty had left, and probably taken John with him. So there was no point in bursting out the door the minute it was opened. Sherlock threw all the bones into the bin and went to the bed, pulled the book on escape routes (Moriarty was one sadistic bastard) and started reading.

* * *

Lestrade's heart was beating very hard and very fast when he opened the front door. There was complete silence inside. He doubted that anyone was even here any more. Sally, who was behind him, remembered what it was like the last time they barged through here. Half expecting to see Moriarty at the other end of the hall, she followed her boss in, gun raised. They had told the rest of the retrieval squad to wait outside and enter should they take any longer than ten minutes. Lestrade wanted Moriarty alive, so he could be sentenced to a long, long stay in prison – with no contact from any human ever again. It was possible. It was the worst punishment available and had never been handed out. The DI wanted to make sure that Moriarty received exactly this.

The bedroom doors on both sides were open and neat and tidy. Lestrade nodded to the door at the end of the hallway. She nodded back and both approached carefully, wary of any booby traps. Lestrade reached for the handle and turned it slowly. Using the door as a shield, he put the gun in first, "SIS agents. Freeze!" he said.

The DI poked his head around the door to find that he was currently holding up several monitors. Swearing, he lowered the gun and Sally followed him in gaping at the site she saw on one of the monitors – Sherlock, sitting on a bed, reading a book.

"Fucking hell," Lestrade muttered, walking to the door on the right. Hoping this was the right one, he opened it, to find the room John had been held in and the opening in the wall, which looked on to a bored-looking Sherlock,

'Sherlock!" he said, hurrying forwards, and the detective looked up and offered Lestrade a smile,

"You don't have John, do you?" he asked, before the DI or Sally, who entered behind him could say anything else. Lestrade paused for a minute,

'No, Sherlock," Sally said and he nodded, getting to his feet,

'Let's not waste any time then," and with that he walked out the door they had just come through, grabbing his great coat off the bed.

The Scotland Yard agents stood still for a moment, 'He's not dealing with the idea that John's in Moriarty's clutches, is he?" asked Lestrade, looking to Sally for confirmation. She shook her head, "no, he isn't," she radioed the Police officers that a Caucasian white male was exiting the building and that he was on their side.

"What now?" she asked,

'We'll get some of the team to run forensics on this place. I doubt we'll find anything, but it's worth a try," Sally nodded and followed her boss out, trying not to think about the hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach. John was really gone. And Jim Moriarty had him.

They were in so much trouble.

* * *

**I'm not actually happy with this Chapter…but there you go. It's kind of a filler. Promise more action soon!**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	32. One Week

**Onto another chapter. Feeling sorry for John.**

* * *

**CHAPTER 32**

**Presidential Suite**

**Sofitel Hotel**

**Melbourne, Victoria**

**Australia**

John examined every crack in the wall and Sophie watched with much amusement from the couch.

"I told you, if you're being held captive here, there is no way out of,"

"How can you be so sure?" asked John, not looking away from what he was doing,

"I can," she said simply, shrugging her shoulders and turning her attention back to the drawing pad she had on her lap. John let his head fall forward on the wall of the sitting room and sighed.

He looked back to the beautiful woman sitting curled up on the sofa and caught her gaze before she dropped it to the pad again and started sketching. Curiosity raised, John went over to where she was and walked behind the couch, resting against the soft, velvety material. He had to stop himself from gasping out loud as an uncanny copy of himself stared back at him, a frustrated look on his face and both hands on the wall in front of him. John looked at Sophie who was blushing, obviously unused to sharing her work with too many people.

'That's amazing," John said, momentarily forgetting that she was the enemy and that paying her compliments was not entirely necessary.

"Thank you," she said softly,

"How many people have seen this?" John asked

"Not many," Sophie replied, the woman not entirely sure why she wasn't pushing John away and demanding her personal space back, because he was leaning over her. He turned those bright brown eyes on her and she found herself less than a foot away from him. He seemed to realise this at the same time and almost fell off the sofa as he pulled away.

'Ah," he said, standing up and straightening his shirt. Sophie laughed at the flush that spread across his face,

'Don't worry," she said, "I won't tell if you won't," John cocked his head to the side before smiling slightly,

_What am I doing?_ He asked himself, walking away from Sophie and into the adjoining bedroom across the hall.

It had a little seat in front of the window and an hour after breakfast John had found it a very comfortable spot, with its brilliant view of Melbourne and comfy cushions.

The doctor walked into the second bedroom and dropped onto the seat, pushing away a feeling of claustrophobia as he realised that he was trapped in this apartment. He would rather be free and without food than up here, with everything he could possibly dream of at his fingertips and unable to escape, his fate still unknown.

Sophie seemed to feel what he was, because John was pretty sure that she wasn't exactly free as she seemed to be. _That woman is a conundrum_ John thought as he watched the path of a seagull as it rode the currents.

When he got too close she would run like he was a crocodile behind her, yet back then, just for that moment she seemed to be something other than his captor's wife, tasked with babysitting him. She had maintained a cool mask of indifference that whole morning, yet when he had accidentally brushed past her arm she flinched like he was about to hit her then retreated to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

The doctor had been here for several hours now, and Howell had not put in an appearance. He was either too busy or was trying to keep John on edge for as long as possible. It was probably the latter, seeing as this _was_ Moriarty they were dealing with.

John closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to Sherlock. There was no sign of anyone else in this apartment apart from him and Sophie, so John supposed that Moriarty would have the detective somewhere else.

With the warm sun on his face and the cool air blowing in from the vents, John let himself think that maybe Moriarty even let Sherlock go free and even now the consulting detective was looking for him, following clues to find him and bring him home. It was a peaceful thought.

* * *

**Police HQ**

**St. Kilda**

**Melbourne, Victoria**

**Australia**

Sherlock stared at the paper in front of him, as did everyone else in the room; not daring to believe that Moriarty was going to leave them clues to find John. It couldn't be possible.

They were sitting in the Chief's office at the headquarters and the envelope had just arrived as the clock struck eleven thirty. It was addressed to Sherlock, and Lestrade, Sally and the detective were reminded rather vividly of the study in pink.

"Are you going to open it?" James asked, looking at them, wondering why they were staring at it. It had been checked for any booby traps and was safe,

'Of course we are," Sherlock said, reaching for it. He picked up the penknife Mitch produced when the envelope arrived and he slit it open, up the top.

Lestrade watched, half expecting a phone to fall out and was almost relieved when it was just a piece of paper. Sherlock extracted it from the envelope and looked at it.

"It's him," he said, "This is quality envelope paper, and the writing on the front is definitely his,"

"Can we get fingerprints?' Mitch asked, watching Sherlock examine the envelope and the folded square,

'No," all three agents chorused, knowing Moriarty was entirely too professional for that.

'It's a photo," Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off the piece of paper and Sally flinched as she wondered what it could be.

Forcing himself to forget what could be happening to John right at this moment; Sherlock opened the paper and felt like he had been punched in the abdomen. There was a picture of John – two nails driven through his palms, straight into a piece of wood and his face was contorted in pain, those light brown eyes darkened in agony.

Sally felt vaguely sick as Sherlock passed the paper on, staring straight ahead, trying to erase it from his memory. The image was imprinted however, unmoving and permanent.

_His_ John, tortured by this monster, because of John's connection to Sherlock.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, noticing the writing in the corner that Sherlock somehow missed. The detective turned his head towards him and Lestrade was, for a moment reminded of the man before John came into their lives.

Those grey eyes were so cold, so unnaturally cold; they had no depth, no life, no warmth.

"Yeah?" he asked his voice perfectly controlled

"There's a message," Sherlock looked at them a moment more,

'Read it out" he said, and Lestrade looked down.

"Dear Sherlock" the DI started, "Guess who! But you already know who this is. Who else would dare to touch your little Johnny? I must say this is quite the interesting picture. Don't worry, you'll be seeing plenty of your little John," Lestrade looked up,

'Signed Moriarty," Sherlock finished for him without having to look and the DI put the picture face down, not wanting to contemplate what that much blood could mean.

"He's alive," Sherlock said, looking at the DI and Sally, both of whom were looking a little paler than normal. "Moriarty will keep him alive for as long as possible,"

'Which means we have some time to catch him," James said, very aware that the three British agents were deeply unnerved by that picture. Sally took a deep breath,

'Yes," she said, trying to stay positive, "He's still alive and we need to remember that we can get him back," The DI nodded and looked to Sherlock,

'So, what's the plan?" he asked,

"We put the pieces together," the detective said, half of him talking to the DI and the other half ripping that picture to shreds in his mind then rebuilding it and looking for clues, for the smallest details that he could have missed,

"What do we have so far?" Mitch asked, watching the reflection on the polished table in front of them,

'We know who has him, and he's probably still in Australia because there has been no activity of any that fits their descriptions at the airports," Lestrade said,

'So we know a general location," the room fell quiet for a moment when something struck Sherlock. Something he had seen in that house. Back in his little room, when Moriarty was eating the lobster, there had been a card sticking out of his right hand pocket. Sherlock had ignored it then but now. Now it all made sense. It was a card from a casino – the Crown Casino. How very foolish of Moriarty.

'I know where we can start," Sherlock said, looking at the DI,

'Where?" Lestrade asked,

'Howell has him," the consulting detective said it without any doubt because he knew that if there was one place that Moriarty could safely keep John without arousing suspicion, it would in a hotel.

"What?" James exclaimed, "That's a little farfetched," the Aussie agent looked bemused,

'No, it isn't," said Sally, "We need to get into his building," she got to her feet. She didn't care, as she might once have, how Sherlock knew this. If it meant that they were going to get John back, she would go to any and all measures to ensure that he was safe.

"How do we know?" asked Mitch, but Sherlock didn't reply, staring instead at the back side of the paper, lost in thought,

'We don't need proof," said Lestrade, 'Sherlock's more than enough," he too got to his feet, "We need surveillance inside that building," Mitch nodded,

'We can do that," he said, "I'll get organised crime onto it right away," He pulled out his phone and James decided he should take the DI to the boss,

'Chief's going to want an update, we'll take it to him," James led the way out of the office and Lestrade followed. Sally realised she didn't actually have anywhere to go and sat back down to see Sherlock lift up the photo, staring at the back,

'Sherlock?" she asked, looking at him. He didn't reply but brought the paper closer to himself so that he could read whatever it was that he was seeing on the back.

Both Mitch and Sally watched as Sherlock brought it so close there was no space between him and the paper,

'No," he whispered quietly, "No," he said again.

'What is it?" Sally asked, more than a little curious now.

"Watermark," the consulting detective answered, 'watermark that belongs to Jim Moriarty," Sherlock placed the paper back on the desk very carefully and looked up at Sally his grey eyes seeming to lack colour,

"The last time he used it, his victims died within a week,"

Sally felt the pit of her stomach disappear as fear froze her to the spot.

A week. They had a week to find John. God help them.

* * *

**Poor Sherlock. **

**Okay, yes. This was a little cruel. But…well…It's…**

**Okay, no excuses, I know. But I promise it gets better!**

**Love you guys :D**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	33. Perfect

**Sorry for the long break guys, but I had exams. :P and now School's out for the summer!**

**WOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!**

**Excuse me. :P**

* * *

**CHAPTER 33**

**Police HQ**

**St Kilda**

**Melbourne**

**VIC, Australia**

Sherlock let his head drop against the table, left alone in the conference room.

The other agents had all gone to get something to eat, but he had not replied when Lestrade asked him whether or not he was hungry nor when Sally said they'd bring something back for him.

He didn't want to eat.

He wanted John.

Unfortunately, and he had to learn this the hard way, at the age of four, you do not get what you want merely by wishing for it.

So he was thinking. Thinking how they were going to get to John, very probably sitting in the Sofitel Hotel.

Both Mitch and Lestrade thought that John would be in the basement, and their best move would be to enter through the new sewers being laid underneath the city, and do a scan, but Sherlock knew that it wasn't Moriarty's style. John was hurt badly, and keeping him in a cellar of any sort might allow infection to build and spread – which would mean that John was in one of the rooms.

He would need medical attention, even though he was a doctor, as the nails had been driven through his hands, meaning he could hardly sew himself up.

Sherlock got to his feet and walked to the window, his eyes roaming the landscape that was presented to him, but not seeing it, his dark, soft shirt and pants reflected in the tinted windows.

However, a doctor coming and going would raise attention – at least a little – from any security team, and it was known that Howell was usually in the security room. So he would know and wonder too.

Jim knew Howell and would probably have told the man. So where did that leave them? Somewhere close to Howell, probably, either in the Penthouse or the one below that.

Sherlock turned as the agents got back,

'I know where John is," Sherlock said,

'Brilliant," Lestrade replied "but I can assure you that he will murder you if he knows you haven't eaten," the DI sat down and motioned for Sherlock to do so as well. He stared at the DI a moment more and forced his anger away.

Lestrade was not just being flippant – they couldn't move until the warrant came through and even though he usually paid very little regard to the law, doing this properly, if Moriarty were there and he was accidentally caught in cross-fire because they believed he had a gun in his hand, no one was going to investigate too deeply.

"Fine," Sherlock said, "how long do we have to wait?" he asked and Sally checked her watch,

'We're moving at six tonight," she said, "that leaves us with four hours between then and now,"

Sherlock walked over to the table and pulled the pizza box towards him, "I'm going straight for John," he said taking a bite and Lestrade put a hand on his shoulder,

'And no one is going to stop you," he said and Sherlock turned his head slightly, his heart thundering at the thought that he could have John back.

* * *

**Sofitel Hotel**

**Melbourne**

**VIC**

**Australia, 3168**

"John!" The doctor's head spun around to face the source of the voice,

"Yeah?" he asked, wondering why Sophie was calling him,

"Lunch is here," she appeared in the doorway, in a different set of clothes all together and John wondered when she changed into the light green dress

"Brilliant," he said. He got to his feet and walked over to the door from which Sophie had disappeared.

The bedroom he had been sitting in was joined to the dining room and the smells that assaulted him almost made him stop in his tracks. Sophie was sitting in a chair at the other end of the table where all the food was.

John walked over, trying not to show his eagerness, but knowing he was failing quite spectacularly, judging by the look on Sophie's face. She was chewing on a piece of bread that looked incredibly soft and her light green eyes were watching John's as he took a seat across from her.

"This looks spectacular," John said, and Sophie nodded,

"Start with the bread." She handed him a perfectly cut piece and John bit into it. The bread was still warm and melted in his mouth. He had to stop himself from actually making a sound,

"Good, isn't it?" Sophie asked and John nodded, quickly deciding that he was very hungry.

They ate in an amiable silence for the next couple of minutes while John pondered his situation not for the first time.

It was he who broke the silence, "So…are you going anywhere tonight?" he asked, looking at Sophie,

'Why? Looking for a date, doctor?" she said, and he involuntarily flushed,

"N-no,' he said, cursing that he just _had_ to blush, "I would just really like to get out of here," he said,

"Well, yes, I am going out, but you're not," she said, 'you're not allowed to leave this room, Doctor," he nodded. John hadn't actually expected a 'yes, come with me,' but he always thought it was good to dream.

Lunch finished quickly after that and John was the first to get up. He walked into the lounge room and turned the TV on, sighing, as a movie that looked like it was for children came on. He jumped as Sophie spoke up from behind him.

'Aladdin," she said and John realised that it was indeed the classic tale and found himself smiling. He had not watched since he was ten. He motioned for Sophie to go to the couch first and she smiled, walking forward,

"I haven't watched this in years," John said, sitting on the other end of the Sofa,

"I would be a little worried if you had seen it recently," she said, watching the characters on screen. John laughed.

Silence fell on the two of them. John turned slightly so that he could see Sophie a little clearer. Her eyes were fixed on the screen and John watched her as she laughed. Finally, the beautiful woman caught onto the fact that he was staring at her.

"What?" she asked, putting a lock of hair behind her ear,

"Erm, nothing," John said, 'just," he stopped, not quite sure what he even intended to say in the first place. They looked at each other a moment more before Sophie cocked her head to the side, 'Are you this smooth with all women you talk to?" she asked and John chuckled, going slightly red,

"In truth…" he glanced back up, "I don't really talk to women much anymore,' he said and Sophie stared at him for a moment before she finally comprehended,

"Sorry, you're gay?" she asked, and John nodded, waiting for an adverse reaction. Instead, he received a relieved laugh,

'You're gay?" she asked again, the smile evident on her face, and in her voice,

"Erm, yeah," he said, reaching behind his head. Sophie looked at him one more time,

"Brilliant," she said, laughing, "just…brilliant," she smiled. John looked bemused,

"What's so brilliant?" he asked,

'I thought – I thought that you were – that you," she stuttered out and John laughed, catching on,

'You thought that I?" John shook his head and found himself laughing with Sophie, the thought that he had been _hitting on her_, funny enough to make him forget that he was here against his will. He had almost forgotten what it was to like women, Sherlock had so completely and utterly taken over his entire being.

They laughed for a full five minutes before John managed to compose himself. A comfortable silence fell on the room, and Sophie put a hand on his arm.

"Seeing as you _are_ gay," she said, "Why don't you help me with my wardrobe?" and she dragged him to his feet, and walked to the bedroom. "Sit here," she said, placing him on seat next to the door. Before he could say much else, she walked into the room and shut the door behind her. John stared at the space where she had stood and rested her head on his hand. _How do I always manage to end up in the most awkward situations?_ He looked up at the TV, _Instead of trying to escape, I'm dressing my captor's wife up._

John allowed a moment for the need to laugh hysterically to pass before he sighed. He could do this. He could wait until tonight, before escaping. _I mean, I'm only twenty-two stories up and I think the door has a bio-metric security system on it. How hard can it be?_

"You have spent too much time around Sherlock," he muttered to himself and shook his head.

* * *

**Police HQ**

**St Kilda , Melbourne**

**VIC**

**Australia, 3168**

Sherlock glared at the clock as if it would somehow go faster if he ordered it to. The second hand, however, did not speed up. "Sherlock, are you going to put the Kevlar vest on or not?" Lestrade asked, standing in the doorway feeling very much like Sherlock's carer as he held the vest out for the fourth time. Sherlock turned the glare onto him,

"No,' he said,

"Why not?" Lestrade huffed, at his patience's end, "how the _fuck _do you intend to get John out of there alive?" The DI walked into the room and slammed the door behind him, locking the agents who were about to join them out. Sherlock turned his back to the detective and continued to stare outside.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said, 'Bloody hell," he spun the detective around in his chair, "at least look at me,"

"What for, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, his grey eyes looking at the DI, "I've failed," the detective turned back to face the window, "I promised myself," Sherlock glanced back up at the DI, who's anger had disappeared as quickly as it had flared up,

"I promised Moriarty would not harm a hair on John's head. That I would never let him take John"

"Sherlock, no one's perfect,"

'John is," Sherlock took the jacket from Lestrade and slipped it over his head, standing up so that he could tighten the side restraint. Lestrade didn't move. He stared at the man who just opened his heart and lay it bare for him to see and didn't not have the slightest inkling as to what he should do.

"Sherlock," the DI was whispering and he wasn't sure why, 'Sherlock there is nothing, nothing in this world that John would not give to see you happy. Do not let Moriarty take that happiness away from you," Lestrade waited until the slate grey filled his vision, this close, seeming to shift and change like a black hole that sucked everything around it in.

"Make me a promise," he continued, "promise me that no matter what happens, no matter how we find John," Sherlock stopped breathing, as the thought registered, 'you will not stop what you are doing. You will continue your work, and you will seek happiness,"

Sherlock stared at the DI, "Not for me," the detective inspector rubbed a hand across his forehead, "But for John,"

"I-"

"Promise me, Sherlock," the DI grabbed his shoulders, desperate to know that if John should not survive, if something would happen, they would not lose Sherlock, the real Sherlock that hid under a mask of coldness.

"Promise me," The DI said again. It seemed forever before Sherlock answered,

"Yes,"

As he said the word, alarms rang out and the moment was broken. Sherlock and Lestrade turned to face the windows to see a smoke filled office and people running.

"Damn," Lestrade muttered, "We need to get out of here," he grabbed Sherlock's arm and dragged him to the door.

Three stories below, a man exited the HQ and climbed into a waiting cab,

'They will be sufficiently delayed," he said, looking at the man sitting in the passenger seat,

"Excellent," the soft Irish lilt sent the hairs on the back of the arsonists neck standing on end.

* * *

**Probably a bad time to end it there, but what can I say? Well John's confused, Sherlock's sad and Lestrade's frustrated. What an interesting end.**

**To the chapter. Not the story. There's more coming.**

**Hope you enjoyed it. :D**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	34. Always

**Sorry for the huge break again, guys. But I was on holiday in India and now somehow managed to contract something that resembles food poisoning. It could be malaria. Haven't figured it out yet. So I do have a rather good excuse. XD**

* * *

**CHAPTER 34**

**Presidential Suite**

**Sofitel Hotel**

**Melbourne, VIC**

**Australia**

The sun was low over the city when the front door opened and Howell walked in to find the apartment eerily quiet. He paused and wondered if something had happened. Perhaps the doctor escaped.

Howell threw his hat onto the side table and didn't stop to pick it up when it bounced off. He strode into the living room and almost immediately tripped over a dress that was spread across the floor. He looked at it a moment longer as if he needed another moment to comprehend _why_ there was a dress on the couch and everywhere else in the living room. In fact he was pretty sure that Sophie's entire wardrobe was spread across the lounge room.

Now slightly worried, Howell followed the dress trail, wincing slightly as he registered the fact that he had just called it the 'dress trail' and walked into the bedroom – to find the prisoner hanging off the window ledge and his wife trying to pull a man twice her weight back into the bedroom. He paused again and despite the fact that he thought he should probably help, the only thought going through his head was that he should _not_ have asked for a window that _opens_ twenty-two stories above ground.

* * *

**Outside Police HQ**

**St Kilda**

**Melbourne, Victoria**

**Australia**

Sherlock stared at the building and the ignored the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach as he realised that they could not get John, not when half the assigned team had to be carried out of the building half dead from a chemical bomb that was set off in the equipment area. Lestrade and Sally stood to the right of him, eyeing the building with great trepidation, the gas masks they were wearing obscuring their eyes from view. But Sherlock knew they were communicating with each other, probably talking about what they were going to do with him, being so unpredictable. They were probably thinking that they needed to keep a close watch on him, especially tonight.

So while they were thinking all this, Sherlock turned around and walked away, the DI's wallet in his hand, skilfully taken after years of practise.

No one stopped him and he knew that the DI and his sergeant had not noticed that he was missing, and that it would take another ten minutes for the smoke that blew their way and currently obscured their vision to clear enough for them to realise he left.

Sherlock pulled the mask from his face and threw it away. Walking onto the street he spotted a yellow taxi and raised his hand. It pulled up to the curb, and Sherlock climbed in,

"Where to sir?" the driver asked,

"To the Sofitel Hotel," The words were spoken softly in that velvet voice and the driver was forced to stare at the man in his back seat, able to be seen in the rear view mirror, dark shirt rolled up at the sleeves, black hair ruffled as if caught in a gale. He looked a moment more before eyes that were a maelstrom themselves met his,

"Drive,"

* * *

**Presidential Suite**

**Sofitel Hotel**

**Melbourne, Victoria**

**Australia**

John sat on the chair and sighed as the handcuffs bit into his skin,

'Who told you to even talk to my wife?' Howell asked, staring the doctor down.

He had shoved Sophie out of the room, handing her his credit card, and telling her not to go over a million. Before she could do anything, his burly bodyguards took her out of the room, and the door sealed behind her, locking her out until Howell let her in.

_Which doesn't give me a great chance to escape,_ John thought, shifting slightly, as his muscles were cramped from sitting in the same position for so long, "No one," John replied, deciding cooperation was his best bet right now. Howell took a drink from his flagon, which John suspected contained whiskey.

There was silence for a minute, in which John could only hear his own breathing.

"I've called James, he's coming here to deal with you," John froze. He tried to suppress the fear that tinged thoughts concerning Moriarty – not for himself, but for Sherlock.

"Great," he managed and Howell laughed,

"Great for him, not for you," he took another drink and straightened his tie, "So how did you end up on the window ledge anyway?" he asked and John raised an eyebrow,

'You're not concerned that I was with your _wife_ in the _bedroom?_" John asked, thinking briefly that he must be masochistic for inciting these thoughts within Howell. The man chuckled,

"You're gay, what harm can you do?" he asked, and John felt like throwing his hands up in the air. He was not gay. He was bi. There was a difference.

Thankfully, he managed not to tell Howell this.

However, when the door opened and John, who was facing the door, saw who it was, he figured it may have been a better fate to be beaten up by Howell.

Moriarty strode into the room and walked over, 'I've heard you've been naughty, Johnny," he said and Howell rolled his eyes,

"Save it for later James," Howell said and Moriarty sighed,

"You never have any fun," the psychopath pouted and Howell got up,

"I'm leaving and finding my wife and taking her out, you have exactly eight hours to do what you will," Howell said, and turned around.

_Midnight. I only need to manage until midnight._

Was the only thought running through John's head as Howell walked out.

"Well, Johnny," Moriarty turned his attention to the doctor who glared back with all the fury he could manage, 'It's just you and me now" Moriarty walked around the chair and ran a finger along John's shoulders, making the doctor shudder in disgust.

"Come now," Moriarty purred, 'Don't be like that," John kept his mouth shut. The nutcase walked around the front again and sat on the sofa in front of John, so that he was eyelevel with the doctor,

'You know what?" he asked, looking at John like he was the most interesting thing ever, "You know what I did?"

'I don't care," John replied but Moriarty continued as if he had not spoken,

"I sent Sherlock a little early Christmas present," the man's green eyes glinted in the light from the warm bulbs above them, 'You know what it was? Here," he reached into his pocket and pulled out what John figured was a photo, judging by the fact that it was on photo paper.

"What is it?" he asked, his tone stating that he didn't really want to know. Moriarty sent a toothy grin his way,

"Take a look," he turned it around so John could see and the doctor would much rather have fallen off that window ledge earlier. It was the picture of him crucified, blood everywhere, pain in every part of his body.

"What?" John asked, having a feeling of what it meant but hoping that he was wrong,

"I know it's wrong to lie, Johnny, but…this _is_ rather a special case," John stared at the man in front of him.

"Not even you…" John said, his heart going fast enough, he was sure, to go into cardiac arrest,

"Oooohh, John," Moriarty took a step back, "You think so good of me," he said and John could have cried. Sherlock would be…would be going through torture right now, especially as that image was looked so authentic.

"Sherlock…"

'Funny," Moriarty said, "how that could be the last word you speak."

Before John could react, Moriarty had a cloth over his face. The doctor struggled but the Irishman was too strong for him with his hands bound. His eyes watered and he begged himself to stay awake, but he knew that it was impossible. His eyes felt heavy and his breathing laboured, yet still he fought, desperate not to lose control, to stay awake. He needed to stay awake. He needed to be…awake.

The doctor blinked sluggishly as his thoughts slowed. He had to stay awake. _Just…hold…on…_

John was sure, as he slipped under, that he heard laugher, although that could have been his overactive imagination.

Then it all went black.

* * *

**Outside the Sofitel Hotel**

**Melbourne**

**VIC**

**Australia**

Sherlock stepped out of the car and it drove off, the driver completely unnerved by the waves of absolute anger that rolled off the man in the back of his taxi.

Sherlock strode into the hotel and didn't even notice the cold air that washed over him, or that he walked into several people as he barged through the front doors.

He ignored reception and walked to the hotel elevator. The consulting detective stepped in and pressed the button labelled twenty-one.

_There is another level._

Sherlock stared straight ahead, as the lift ascended quickly through the building. The doors were barely open when he stepped out of the elevator.

He knew there had to be stairs and they had be something other than electronically activated, because if there was a fire, the entire electric system is shut down. His long legs allowed him to cross the floor quickly and he arrived at the end of the corridor, the long corridor empty, despite the early hour of the evening.

The consulting detective was examining a door that read: STAFF ONLY, not because he cared that the general public were not allowed in but because it seemed a little too easy to get onto the top floor. Deciding that John was worth the risk, he opened the door and was running up the smooth, cement stairs.

He was not even remotely tired when he reached the top and opened the fire door to a corridor that looked alike to the ones below it – with one difference – there was only one door and Sherlock could spot three different security systems from where he stood.

Carefully, he slid out of the door and calculated the camera's blind spot and hurried over, putting himself to the left of the alarmed double oak doors.

He examined them carefully. They were operated electronically, as there were no handles and no keyhole. Add the fact that there was a touchpad to the right of the door and there was no doubt that it was electronically activated.

Sherlock thought. He was sure that it was the only way into the room, but he couldn't waltz up and knock on the door. He frowned and then suddenly, an idea occurred to him.

There had to be a ventilation system. Whether or not there was air conditioning, there had to be ventilation, and as obvious an entry point as it might seem, it had to exist, because one could hardly do without oxygen.

The consulting detective looked up to track the movement of the camera and as soon as it did move, he moved as well.

In two strides he was at the fire escape doors and down the stairs.

He rushed down and arrived at the floor below. He stepped out and paused in the corridor.

_I need a room_.

Sherlock looked from door to the other, and chose the door on his left, numbered five hundred and sixty two in shining gold numbers.

He paused in front of the door, before trying the handle. As he suspected, it was open, and he walked into the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

The room was empty and the detective hurried over to the bed, above which, a vent that may just let him in stood.

Climbing onto the bed, his movements precise and calculated, Sherlock found he could reach the vent easily with his height.

He pulled the cover of the vent off and let it fall onto the soft bed below. Then, with barely any effort at all, he hoisted himself up into the ceiling vent, shuffling further in and pulling his legs up after him. Hoping he was going in the right general direction, he got on all fours and started crawling, making very little noise.

It took ten minutes to get to the above floor, and a lot of effort. Sherlock was sweating, his shirt soaked down the back as he flopped down into the vent, a floor above, covered in dust and cobwebs, his breathing uneven. He picked himself up and started crawling, his sense of direction perfect as he guided himself towards the room in which he was certain John was being held.

Finally, he reached a vent and looked into a room that was full of dresses and felt his heart stop.

There was Jim Moriarty, examining a dress, looking at dapper as always.

Sherlock didn't bother to be subtle.

In one movement, he kicked the vent out and dropped down, landing in a crouch, startling Jim enough to make the psychopath jump.

"Sherlock!" He exclaimed, his tone indicating joyous surprise. Sherlock didn't say anything as he stood, his eyes fixed on the man who was intent on ruining the only important thing in his life.

Moriarty moved forward, "Nice of you to drop in!" he said and Sherlock scowled as he laughed, "bad mood, Sherlock?" he asked,

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked and Moriarty pouted,

'I had hoped you were here to see me," he said.

Sherlock stood still. Moriarty held his gaze, the green eyes alight with happiness. Finally, he broke the silence,

'Alright," he said, his voice a whisper, 'I'll let you see John," he took a step backwards and Sherlock took a step forward,

'Just like that?" he asked and Moriarty smiled,

"Yes," he said, "Just like that,"

Eyes narrowed with suspicion, Sherlock walked after him into the bedroom, and forced himself not to pause before entering. Preparing himself for the worst, Sherlock let his eyes fall onto the bed and for a moment, was confused, before it all made sense again, as a wave of relief washed over him, relief that John was okay, quickly followed by anger.

"You bastard," the words were quiet, but they resonated through the room. Moriarty's laugh echoed over them,

"You didn't think I'd hurt your toy, did you? Not without you present, anyway" Sherlock felt his heart clench at the words but didn't show it as Moriarty laughed as he moved towards John. He ran a hand through his hair, as a mother would with her child,

"Don't touch him," Sherlock growled and Moriarty chuckled,

'So protective, Sherlock" he said and Sherlock made to take a step forward, but as soon as he did, Moriarty had a gun pointed at John's chest.

"You didn't come just to see me, did you, Sherlock?" he asked, and Sherlock's brow furrowed. The mad man was serious, his mood changing in an instant and Sherlock sighed. Why did the only one with anywhere near as much brain power as him have to be crazy?

"Jim," Sherlock started, "Why don't we keep this between me and you?" he asked, keeping his voice level and quenching the need to strangle the man. He kept eye contact until the last minute,

"Let John go, he's too small for this game," Sherlock let his words register, "This game that you and I belong to," The gun moved slightly and Sherlock had a feeling that his words were working.

Sherlock took a step closer, using every last drop of his skill to keep all of Moriarty's attention on himself,

"We could have so much fun," he said, keeping his voice low, his eyes locked on his enemy's,

"Yes," Jim whispered, caught up in the world Sherlock described to him,

"Let him go," Sherlock repeated one more time, as he took another step forward. He lifted a hand slowly,

"Why don't you give me the gun, Jim?" he asked, "Then we can have a long talk," he held his fingers out, his porcelain skin seeming to glitter under the lights. Jim stared at him, and was about to hand the gun over when the door opened and Howell walked in,

"Jimmy!" he called and the moment was broken,

'What?" he snapped at the man who glared back as he replied,

"Cops. They're in the foyer. They have a warrant, and they're coming!" Jim looked to Sherlock, who kept his face expressionless. Moriarty stayed still, still looking at Sherlock, trying to decide,

'Damn it, Jim! We need to move!" Howell said, and Sherlock felt his heart sink as Jim backed away from the bed, gun still pointed at John, his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

_So close,_ Sherlock thought as the man backed away,

"JIM!" Howell yelled ad Jim walked to the door, still keeping the gun on John,

"It's too bad, Sherlock, it could have happened" he said, and Sherlock suddenly couldn't breathe as Moriarty looked at John. His words may have calmed Jim down, but it also may have given him a bad idea, "There's only one thing standing in the way," Moriarty said and Sherlock knew what he was going to do. Even as he leapt forward to stop Moriarty, he watched in growing horror, as if it were in slow motion, as Jim raised the gun, and his finger tightened on the trigger. There was nothing he could do except watch the gun flash and send the bullet straight at John.

Sherlock watched as Howell grabbed Jim's arm and dragged him from the room and all that was left in Sherlock's mind was the image of a smiling Moriarty.

There was a millisecond of silence, before Sherlock came back to himself.

With shaking hands, he climbed onto the bed and tried not to panic at the sight of so much blood.

"John," he whispered, trying to find the wound. His partner was silent as Sherlock threw the sheets off him. His heart dropped into his stomach as he realised John had been shot in the chest.

Bundling the sheets up, Sherlock placed them on the wound, applying pressure, watching John's face as a moan escaped his unconscious lips and the detective's vision grew blurry,

"Don't leave me yet, John," he said, trying not to think how the sheet was filling with blood, how John's breaths were getting harder.

"Please," A tear fell, as Sherlock crouched next to John, landing on his cheek. The consulting detective wiped it away with a bloody hand, leaving a smear across John's golden skin.

He let his palm rest against John's cheek, warm, soft, alive.

_Don't die. I need you. I love you._

Never before had Sherlock paid attention to so many details.

John's every breath was like gold to him, making him take another breath himself.

John's every heartbeat, his pulse felt through his skin, made Sherlock want to do something ridiculous, like dance or sing.

As the sun shone through the window, setting over the Melbourne skyline, Sherlock realised he had never seen someone so gorgeous as the man dying in front of him.

And then John opened his golden eyes and Sherlock's heart stopped beating.

"John," he whispered and the doctor's eyes focused on the detective. He tried to say something but Sherlock shook his head,

"Don't talk," he said and John swallowed, wincing as the movement hurt, 'You're shot," Sherlock said, with his usual bluntness.

John could have laughed, if he'd had the energy. If it didn't hurt so much. If he didn't feel so tired.

"Sherlock," he managed and his voice was so quiet Sherlock might have missed it if he had breathed at that moment, and then he was crying for real,

'Don't talk, John," he said, "You need to not talk," he begged and ordered at the same time,

"Will," John's eyes were shining with unshed tears, unspoken words, and every breath was coming out shorter, as he attempted a sentence he needed to say.

Sherlock was gripping the blood soaked sheet that was acting as a bandage so hard his hand was hurting. His other was running through John's hair, ruffling to a point he knew John hated but he loved,

"You," John took a shuddering breath and another tear slid down Sherlock's cheek as he watched John struggle,

"You're going to kill yourself," Sherlock whispered, shaking, leaning down and resting his forehead on John's, their lips almost touching, feeling John's breath ghost against his cheek,

"Marry me?" John finally gasped out and Sherlock froze.

His entire world had come down to this spot. This hotel, this room, this bed.

He looked into John's eyes and knew John understood his answer. Those golden, golden eyes locked onto his and Sherlock felt the smile, the happiness.

And then they fluttered closed and it was as if all the light had disappeared.

The bedroom door banged open, and suddenly Lestrade was in the room, a paramedic behind him, with a stretcher and Sherlock was asked to leave.

Many times, in fact, but he couldn't. He could leave John. He had to be there. Always.

In moments, Lestrade was holding him, taking him away from John.

His John.

"Let me go! John!" he screamed, fighting with the DI, who bodily dragged him out of the room.

There were people everywhere, but Sherlock didn't care.

"JOHN!" he screamed again but Lestrade didn't let go, both his arms around the consulting detective

They were out in the corridor, and Lestrade led further down the corridor, almost carrying the man. He was saying something, but Sherlock wasn't listening.

The DI let go of Sherlock and pressed him against the wall, before he could run off again. He locked Sherlock in, by putting one arm on either side of the man,

"SHERLOCK!" he yelled and finally, the detective focused on Lestrade, the blur of everything that was not John coming into focus, his sharp mind taking in useless details, despite the fact that he did not care,

'He needs medical attention," Lestrade said, and that was when Sherlock realised the man was crying, "You think I want to be out here?" he said, "but inside, we're only getting in the way," his voice cracked and he broke eye contact to blink away the tears.

Sunlight was bouncing of the white wall and throwing their shadows down the corridor as people walked past, ignoring the two of them.

Sherlock stared at the DI, "'I can't leave him," he said, finally,

'You're not," Lestrade said, looking up, "You could never leave him, Sherlock," he said and that, if nothing else, made Sherlock see reason.

"He's going to be fine, right?" Sherlock asked, knowing that it was a pointless question but desperate for an answer. The DI looked at Sherlock, the man who had changed so much because of one person and wished he could give him the answer he wanted,

"He's John," he said finally, "he's a fighter,"

Sherlock looked up as the bedroom door opened and was running before he knew what he was doing, towards John's side, taking his hand in his.

His heart sank as he realised that the doctor was not breathing on his own.

"You have to pull through," he said as they walked towards the elevator, "You have to,"

Lestrade watched as the elevator door closed and prayed more fervently than he had ever done so before, for John to survive.

Outside, an eagle soared through the sky, circling the hotel as the lift descended and the sun disappeared behind a building.

Hopefully tomorrow would not bring sorrow.

* * *

**Hehe…  
Oops  
Couldn't help myself.  
Soooo…am I dead yet?**

**Aza  
xoxo**


	35. Umbrellas and Miracles

**I have someone to thank for some things in this chapter, and a lot of this story, in fact, and that is Phoebe, who, amazingly, has stuck with me even though she has been shown rather a lot of evidence as to how strange I am. **

**XD **

**Love you, Phoebe! *hugs***

* * *

**CHAPTER 35**

**The Royal Prince Alfred Hospital**

**Melbourne**

**VIC**

**Australia**

The hospital room was completely bare and everything except the grey floor was white.

Sherlock, dressed as he was, stood out rather painfully, his black clothes contrasting with the white of everything around him.

He wasn't paying attention to that, though.

He was staring at the man lying in the bed, hooked up to a machine that kept his lungs breathing, another that kept his heart beating, one that stopped his kidneys failing, a tall one that delivered food, and another that removed waste.

Clinically, Dr. John Watson was dead.

Sherlock could have told everyone exactly what was wrong with John, could have said, to Mycroft, and Sally that statistically, John had needed surgery within ten minutes of being shot for a proper chance, and that there was a three per cent chance of him actually making it through now. That when the bullet hit, it shattered his sternum, and sent fragments of bone in fifty-three different directions, collapsing both lungs and lodging in his heart. He also should have mentioned that the surgeons missed at least two, judging by the angle that John's chest was rising and falling at.

He could and should have.

But he didn't.

He didn't because it didn't matter. All that mattered was that John should open his eyes, and tell him to stock the fridge or stop being an idiot. Then get irritated with him, say he needed some air and walk out. Or kiss him. Or do something that was entirely John-like.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand, which he had held for close to eight hours now, and closed his eyes, the sounds of the machines barely registering with him.

Mycroft, for the first time in a very long time, didn't know where to look. The broken doctor lying on the bed, or the broken detective holding his hand.

So he did what he did best.

He got to his feet and ignored the calls of the sergeant to his right, who looked more than surprised that he would leave his brother at this time.

He strode out of the room, leaving his umbrella where he had been sitting, for once not caring, and took the stairs down.

He walked around for a while, letting his feet take him and found himself in the garden of the hospital where much to his surprise, DI Greg Lestrade stood, looking the worse for wear.

The man was gripping the railings hard and staring at the lower level of the garden, visible through a cut in the ground, but it was obvious he was not seeing a thing.

Mycroft paused with his hand on the door handle, examining the DI.

His hair was mussed and uncombed and the dark circles under his eyes were clear even from this distance. His suit was a complete mess, and the tie hung loosely, the top two buttons undone. As he raised his eyes and locked onto the elder Holmes' the tear tracks were all too obvious in the blinding sun.

Mycroft walked in, relishing the feel of the sun, but feeling as if he couldn't enjoy it completely,

"How do you do that?" Lestrade asked, his voice cracking slightly, hoarse from disuse and crying, not surprised that he had been found here by a man who Sherlock described as the government.

"I didn't," Mycroft said, for the first time, not up to making everything look as if it was some grand scheme. Not when the DI was in this state anyway. Lestrade looked at him,

"Is John-"

"He's no better," Mycroft cut across him as he joined him at the rail, facing the door he just walked through,

'Oh," Lestrade shifted weight and glanced sidelong at Mycroft.

There was a moment's silence.

'You've let your umbrella upstairs," he finally commented and Mycroft raised an eyebrow,

"Pardon?" he asked, turning his piercing gaze onto the DI, who immediately realised that was a very strange comment to make, considering why they were in the hospital in the first place,

'Erm, sorry, I meant, well, you never go anywhere without it," he finally managed, knowing he was red as a tomato, and wishing he was somewhere else right now,

"Ah," Mycroft replied and faced forward again.

Lestrade allowed himself to sigh, knowing Mycroft would pick up on it immediately.

"I think John has to get better," he said, his words quiet in the big area and Mycroft looked at him,

"_Has_ to get better?" Mycroft asked,

"If he doesn't we'll have to deal with Sherlock, and I don't think even you could," Lestrade shot Mycroft a sidelong glance and found, with relief, that the man was smiling,

"Yes, that's true," Mycroft said and Lestrade felt a smile of his own growing, before both their heads snapped to the door as Sally came running out, puffing,

'There you are!" she said, she cheeks red, his eyes bright, a smile so huge it was enough to break Lestrade and Mycroft out of the reverie both had fallen into.

Lestrade felt a smile spread, feeling foreign to him, after so long, "no," he said, hope flooding his senses and she nodded,

'It's a miracle," she looked between the two of them,

"The doctor usually is," Mycroft said, the corners of his lips upturned and Lestrade could have kissed the man.

They hurried up the stairs together, Sally in the lead and into John's room, and lo and behold, John's eyes were open and the doctor standing next to his bed looked as if he need a chair and a glass of water.

It didn't help that Sherlock had found his voice and was telling him everything he had done wrong, in a tone as sharp as razor blades

Lestrade walked further into the room and his eyes met John's. The smile was evident,

'Hey mate," Lestrade said, walking forwards, knowing that John couldn't talk. His eyes said it all though, "I'd hug you, but I think Sherlock called first dibs," John smiled, an effort though it was, and Lestrade's day was complete.

Mycroft hung back in the doorway, watching the scene, and decided he wasn't needed anymore. He allowed his eyes to settle on the DI, practically glowing, his hand on John's arm before deciding he _really_ should go.

Sherlock watched his brother leave and looked back at the DI then back at his brother, before dismissing the idea as foolish and grabbing John's attention, and his hand, again.

* * *

**Howell's Home**

**Brighton**

**Melbourne, VIC**

**Australia**

Jim Moriarty paced the expensive Persian rug beneath him and Howell, stretched out on the sofa sighed,

'Sit down, Jim," he said, to be completely ignored by the villain, who continued to pace,

"It's not fair!" he finally exclaimed and Howell jumped,

"What?" he asked, irritated,

"It's' not fair. This whole thing is not fair!" Jim pouted like a child,

"I take it you're talking about Sherlock Holmes?" Howell watched as the light in Jim's eyes shifted,

"Him too," he said, "But this situation. I could have had it all and then that stupid DI comes blundering in," Moriarty growled,

"So get rid of the DI,"

"No, he's the only one who can put up with Sherlock's antics," Moriarty said, "If I get rid of him, Sherlock won't be able to access crime scenes that I put there just for him,"

Howell shook his head. He was really regretting ever getting involved with this mad man, "So what do you want to do?" he asked and the psychopath suddenly lit up,

"Exactly," he said and Howell had a great urge to punch the man,

"What?" he asked, his patience wearing thin,

"It's about what I want to do,"

"Yes. Yes it is," Moriarty sent him a dirty look,

"I will do what I want to do. I already killed John."

'Indeed," Howell pitched in dryly, knowing he was pushing his luck a bit, but was too irritated to care. Moriarty acted as if he didn't hear,

"So I'll lure Sherlock in,"

"Where?"

"Here," Moriarty locked onto Howell's eyes, "You don't mind, do you?" he asked, his voice going to that polite, civil and downright terrifying level. Howell sighed,

'Not at all," he said, forcing a smile,

"Good," Jim clapped his hands together, "So," he looked around, "where's a good place to torture someone?" and finally, he took a seat across from Howell,

"The master bedroom's always useful, Howell said, taking a sip of his Bacardi and Jim nodded,

'Excellent," he grinned, "Now all I need is Sherlock,"

"And how, exactly, do you plan on getting him?"

Moriarty smiled the smile of a man who just won the Cup, "I'll send him an invite," Howell raised his glass to the madman,

"Congratulations," he said. Moriarty reached for the bottle and poured himself a glass and raised it as Howell had,

"To Sherlock Holmes,"

* * *

**The Royal Prince Alfred Hospital**

**Melbourne**

**VIC**

**Australia**

John had fallen back under, but into a more natural sleep, and most of the life support machines had been taken away by an amazed crew.

Non-family had been ordered away, but Sherlock said he was family. When asked, he said husband, and he wasn't bothered again.

Now, several hours later, Sherlock sat in a new set of clothes he begrudgingly changed into after his brother re-appeared, and forced him into the shower, all but taking his clothes off for him, as he protested.

The irritating man in question, sat across the bed from him, looking expectantly as he looked back. Finally, he gave in, "What?" he asked and Mycroft shook his head,

"Congratulations are in order, Sherlock, and yet you've told no-one? Why's that?" Sherlock felt colour coming to his cheeks as outrage ran through his being,

"How-" he cut himself off, his grey eyes burning, "That was a private moment, Mycroft," he finally managed, his tone so sharp it could have cut Mycroft to pieces, had he been a lesser man.

His older brother rolled his eyes, "Hardly. If it wasn't for me, Sherlock, John would be dead, and you know it,"

"Shut up," Sherlock said, flicking a stray ebony curl away from his eyes, eyes that showed a battle as emotions he had buried a long time ago concerning his brother came to life again. John always did seem to have that effect on him.

"I called the ambulance, Sherlock, told them there was a shooting. I ordered a private room and private doctor to be ready for him,"

'So what?" Sherlock muttered and Mycroft shook his head again,

'You'll never learn, will you, Sherlock?" and now, Sherlock could see the anger, well-disguised underneath a façade of cool, "always running into situations blindly," Mycroft had to force himself to keep his voice down, as he locked eyes with his little brother, whom he had raised while their parents were away, which had been most of the time,

'One of these days, Sherlock, you're going to get him killed," Sherlock's hand tightened around John's at the thought as Mycroft glanced at the sleeping figure, "and then what are you going to do? Hunt down the man who killed him? Spend the rest of your life trying to make up or it? Runaway?"

Mycroft paused to let himself calm down as well as to let his idiot of a genius brother absorb his words. Why couldn't the child _listen_ for once? He did what he did because he loved him, damn it.

Then, Sherlock got up and walked around the bed. "What are you doing, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked getting up as well and suddenly, Sherlock was hugging him. He paused for a minute, too shocked to do anything, before he returned it.

"Thank you," Sherlock said, and it was enough.

He let go and Mycroft could not have controlled the surprise on his face if he tried. His brother's eyes were sincere, and it was the most out of character thing the man had ever seen.

"Sherlock?" he asked and his reply was a small smile, as Sherlock returned to his seat,

"You can go now," Sherlock said, returning to his previous post, and Mycroft decided that perhaps that was for the better,

"Right," he said, picking up his bowler, "I'll be at the hotel if you need me," still in a bit of a daze he left the room and Sherlock watched him.

The detective turned back to John, sleeping peacefully, "He's still my archenemy," he said to John, as if the man could reply.

* * *

**Was that too much fluff considering the events?**

**Aza**

**xoxo**


	36. Stupid

**This is the point where I apologise profusely for my long, long absence. But I really, truly am sorry and the only excuse I can give you is that this is one of the most important of two years of all my schooling, considering I want to get into medicine.**

…

**Still not good enough huh? Well here's a chapter! *runs away from angry readers***

* * *

**CHAPTER 36**

**Inner Melbourne**

**VIC**

**Australia**

Between John coming back from the dead and the invitation to what Moriarty called 'The final showdown' in his hand, Sherlock really did not know what to do – smile or frown. Sometimes human emotions were a little too much for him to manage.

The messenger had come up to John's room, when everything was quiet and Sherlock himself was drifting off to sleep. The teenage boy looked like he hadn't eaten in about a week or showered in a month and Sherlock slipped him a fifty dollar note and told him to run like hell after accepting the white envelope on which his name was written.

The message had been simple.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Now that John is dead, you no doubt are grieving at his deathbed. _

_Forget him. Join me. _

_Please come to 121 Belleview Avenue, Brighton. I'll be waiting_

_X_

Sherlock had stared at the note for a while before coming to his decision. He was going, and he was going to finish this stupid game. The metal of the Army issue Beretta was cold against his back, despite the fact that he knew that it was warm from the contact with his skin, tucked in his waistband as he walked down the street, the heels of his shoes clicking softly on the cement footpath. The dark suit he wore seemed to absorb light as he walked, the cool summer night wind rustling the leaves in the trees above him and disturbing the quiet, empty street of inner city Melbourne. The Victorian style houses rose up on either side of him, the expensive new facades contrasting to the old settler's houses that sat next to them, expensive cars glinting in the yellow light from the street lamps scattered around.

It had taken Sherlock barely twenty minutes to arrive, pleased to find that the roads were very empty this late. He stared at the tall wrought iron gates of the mansion he stood in front of, and was not surprised at all that as he stood there for a minute, the light under the security camera clicked red and the gates silently slid open without him having to do anything. Sherlock waited until they were fully open before making his way inside them, wondering briefly is this was the smartest thing he had ever done. Still, now was not the time for second-guessing himself.

Gravel crunched underfoot as he walked up the twisting driveway and the lights on either side lit the underside of the old trees, casting ghostly shadows onto Sherlock as he walked, slowly towards the house, while there seemed to fall a stillness on the front lawns

The front doors were wide open and the detective did not pause in the cold shadows surrounding the house. He walked straight into the lit entrance hall and only stopped when his eyes adjusted and fell onto Moriarty, wearing a black diesel hoodie and dark Armani jeans, lips curved into a smile.

"Sherlock," he said, as the doors automatically swung closed behind Sherlock,

"Jim," The detective answered, somehow keeping his voice cool,

"Always overdressed, aren't we?" Jim asked and Sherlock chuckled,

"Don't think so," he said, tilting his head to the side, and in a flash he had the gun out and pointed at Jim, "Rather good for a funeral," the psychopath smiled and tilted his head,

"Oh Sherly," he said, the lilt soft and warm, but the glint in his eyes the exact opposite, "That would be playing fair," Sherlock could have rolled his eyes as a hand grabbed him and dragged him backwards, smothering him, with what the detective thought was getting a bit old – chloroform – as he lost consciousness.

* * *

**The Royal Prince Alfred Hospital**

**Melbourne**

**VIC **

**Australia**

Lestrade walked into the hospital room, knowing that there was little chance Sherlock or John would be awake, but wanting to be there for them anyway. He had gone back to the hotel to change and rest for a little while, and when the nurses tried to get rid of him, he flashed his badge and they, disgruntled, left him.

For a minute, the DI had to stop in the doorway, to see John resting peacefully, the only machine he needed now being the monitor.

_Thankyou God_ was the first thought into his mind and he didn't even think he believed in God anymore. He shook his head and then realised that something felt different. Like something was missing and then it hit him – where was Sherlock? Lestrade glanced around the room as if the detective would be hiding in the shadows somewhere.

"Well, this is interesting," Lestrade moved further into the room and walked to the other side, to the chair Sherlock had claimed as his own for the past day now, "Sherlock's not here," Lestrade said to John as he sat down, half expecting an irate detective to run in and drag him out bodily.

Not really sure why, Lestrade reached out and took John's hand, "We were worried, mate," he said and brown eyes fluttered open to the sound of his voice.

The smile on the DI's face was enough to make John smile back, despite the fact it hurt. Everything hurt, now he came to think about it.

The doctor tried to speak but found he couldn't and Lestrade shook his head,

"Don't talk, you'll strain yourself," and John managed to raise an eyebrow while Lestrade chuckled, "At least let me give you some water?" he asked, and John nodded.

The DI got up and reached for the jug, pouring a jug of water for the doctor. "Not so much fun being the patient, is it?" he asked raising the bed, and trying not to find the look John was giving him _cute_, of all the bloody things.

As soon as the doctor was in a relatively sitting position, no doubt in pain, judging by the rapid breaths and the breathing through his mouth, Lestrade walked up so he could rest a hand on the doctor's arm, "Are you sure you're alright to be sitting up?" he asked, trusting that as a doctor could diagnose himself.

John locked eyes with Lestrade and titled his head to the side, as if saying, _Of course. _ Lestrade held the glass to the Doctor's lips and slowly titled it. The doctor drank greedily but Lestrade knew enough not to let him have the whole glass,

"Later," he said,

'Cheers," John managed and Lestrade grinned,

"How are you managing any of this?" he asked, staring at the doctor in wonder, "you shouldn't even…" he faded off as the realisation hit and John realised he was right,

"Be alive?' he croaked, his voice hoarse, and his throat sore. Lestrade sitting back down, resting his hands on the railing,

"Yeah," he agreed and John went to shrug before he remembered it would _really_ hurt and stopped himself.

"Defying odds," he said, looking up to the clean white ceiling moving his head slowly because his neck hurt too, 'That's what I do," he looked back to Lestrade who, not that he'd admit it, had tears in his eyes. John's face softened, and he would have reached up and wiped them away, but as he had already figured, it would hurt.

"That's why we love you," he said and John cracked a grin, the wrinkles below his eyes more prominent, the shadows that haunted him all the more obvious and Lestrade wondered how much more the soldier could take,

"John," he started but the doctor shook his head,

"I don't want to know how much you were going to miss me, or what could have happened," he said, wincing as his voice cracked on the last syllable. Lestrade put the glass to his lips again and John accepted, even though he hated feeling so dependant.

"Good," the DI swallowed, "because I was going to ask you if you would like me to go and find Sherlock," John smiled again, but didn't get to reply,

"Impossible, Detective," The doctor's head snapped around too fast for his abused body and he let out groan, drawing Lestrade's attention back from the Mycroft, standing in the door and back to the sick doctor,

"John?" the surgeon kept his eyes closed as pain raced through his body, like fire and ice all at the same time. Lestrade shot Mycroft a dirty glare for his sudden appearance,

"What do you mean?" the doctor gasped out, trying to forget about how much everything hurt. _This isn't fair,_

"I mean he's gone after Moriarty," Lestrade's focus snapped back onto Mycroft, who, if the DI was being honest, looked years older as he stood there, a fatigued expression on his face, his gaze on Lestrade.

John forced himself to open his eyes and bite the pain down, "What?" he asked, brown eyes filled with worry,

"He received a message from a teenage boy, who then ran out of here like it was on fire. He then kissed you," he nodded to John who even now, despite the fact that he really should be beyond caring, blushed, "and left with the gun that was in that top drawer," Mycroft pointed towards it with his umbrella.

Lestrade found himself wondering if Mycroft ever got caught in a thunderstorm, before he remembered their situation.

"He wouldn't be stupid enough to walk into a trap,"

"My brother is very stupid," Mycroft took his hat off and play with the brim and Lestrade was struck, suddenly, by an overwhelming urge to hug the elder Holmes, but refrained for obvious reasons.

"So…" Lestrade looked back to John, 'Are you just going to stand there?" he asked and Mycroft shook his head,

"Of course not," he walked around to the other side of the bed, "I' m just going to sit here," and he promptly took what John was now calling 'Sherlock's chair' while Lestrade gaped at him, wondering why he was still _surprised _Mycroft didn't have a heart.

* * *

**I know. It still doesn't make up for the long break. I did give Fanfiction up for lent (pure torture) so that's another reason!**

**...**

**Still not impressed? I'll try to make it up, promise!**

**But thankyou for sticking with me and being patient :)**

**Love you!**

**Aza**

**xx**


	37. Fiancée?

**Not sure if this is a very good chapter, but here goes anyway. :/**

* * *

**Howell's Residence**

**Toorak**

**VIC**

**Australia**

Sherlock was beginning to tire of this – waking up without any idea of how he got there, usually staring up at a ceiling.

_The bed is a definite bonus,_ he thought, as he quickly realised he was in a bedroom,

'Sorry, Sherlock, I hate to sedate you like an animal, but it was for your own good," Sherlock recognised the voice in the corner and had to stop himself from reacting, as he sat up slowly and it dawned on him the bedroom, big and modern, had him and Moriarty in it and the door was locked.

Moriarty was playing with the key.

"Why are we in the bedroom?" Sherlock asked, and what could only be described as a wicked grin, crossed the psychopath's features,

"Take a guess, Sherly," The detective tried not to wince at both the name and the implications, but knew he failed quite miserably. Still, never let him be called a pessimist,

"I don't suppose you were going to just let me relax a bit, were you?" He asked dryly and Moriarty laughed, as he watched Sherlock sit up,

'Where did you get this humour from?" was his reply and Sherlock cocked an eyebrow,

"Couldn't tell you,"

"Sherlock," Moriarty got to his feet, but Sherlock couldn't find the right amount of coordination to slide of the bed before the madman was standing at the foot of it, looking entirely too happy for this particular situation, "Don't be worried," he smiled at Sherlock, green eyes Sherlock would have found fascinating if not for the fact they were _his_, lighting up with joy, "but I don't intend to let you out of here,"

Sherlock watched as Moriarty slipped the key into his pocket,

"Ah," was the detective's tentative reply, a flash of slight fear running through him before he quelled it, realising fear was not going to help him at this moment,

_Was anything?_

"We'll have some fun, Sherlock," Moriarty made sure to keep eye contact with him, his voice already on a lower pitch than Sherlock was comfortable with "We'll have plenty of fun,"

And it was then, that Sherlock wished John _hadn't _made him watch all those Bond movies, because this was rather reminiscent of a several scenes in which a character died.

_At least it'll be interesting for-_

Sherlock stopped that thought before it had time to fully form

_Shut up._

* * *

**Royal Prince Alfred**

**Melbourne**

**Victoria**

**Australia**

"What," John winced as pain stabbed his chest, then continued, "What do you mean you're just going to sit there?" he asked, the incredulous tone in his voice made all the more obvious because it was now quite loud, despite the fact that it hurt.

Mycroft looked the doctor straight in the eye, "It means we're going to let Sherlock find his own way out of this situation,"

"That's madness," The DI chipped in, coming round to the otherside and leaning on the bed, staring at Mycroft, seeing the same eyes that Sherlock had, but nothing else,

"No," The elder Homes adjusted his tie slightly, "It's not, because Sherlock has done this one too many times,"

"You're leaving him in the hands of a madman!" John's voice cracked with anxiety and Lestrade looked at him, lying a hand on his arm,

"Don't strain yourself," he muttered and John grimaced, wanting to bat away his hand, yet finding too much comfort in its presence, and then berating himself,

"Shut up," he muttered, then turned to Mycroft, "Sherlock will die!" he said and watched as the infuriating man shook his head,

"I doubt that very much,"

"How can you be so fucking flippant?" Lestrade growled and the man shrugged, as John felt his anger growing,

"I'm not." Mycroft looked between the two men, "All I'm saying is Sherlock needs to look after himself," John watched as a shadow crossed Mycroft's face, "too many people have died because of my younger brother," he added softly and both Lestrade and John exchanged a glance,

"What if," John started softly, and waited until Mycroft was looking at him, into those warm blue eyes that his younger brother could not and would not ever forget, "we want to die for him, because we see in him greater hope for this world?" John asked and Mycroft's eyes widened just a fraction,

"Look at you, John," he suddenly said, more force behind his words than he had originally intended, "You would not be in this position at all, if it wasn't for him," Mycroft wasn't even sure why he was talking them out of saving Sherlock. He loved him. He honestly didn't ever want anything to happen to him. Yet at the same time, he knew that the petulant child in the genius needed to learn that other people are affected by his actions, and that someone whom Mycroft found to be a truly good man, put his life on the line for him everyday.

"If it wasn't for him, I'd be bored to death on an Army pension, working at a clinic, wondering what my life was reduced to," John said and Lestrade looked over,

'If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have met my best mate," he added and John looked up, a huge grin appearing,

"True," he added and they both chuckled. Mycroft sighed,

"Doesn't meant that it is right," he said and Lestrade rolled his eyes,

"Not the point." He played the cuff of his shirt, "Sherlock can be a right bastard, but we chose to come here and chose to give our lives. We made this _choice_ Mycroft,"

"Something you don't necessarily understand," John added under his breath and both men, now staring at each other, ignored him. Lestrade did tell himself to get a grip as his eyes wanted to stray, and Mycroft ordered himself to focus on the conversation and not how much he really, really wanted to mess Lestrade's hair up.

Neither really managed and neither particularly found themselves caring, even as they proceeded with the argument.

"Sherlock asked and we followed because we wanted to, not because someone forced us, and we love him," Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but Lestrade kept going, "admittedly, all he does is drain my life, but I love him because he's so…" Lestrade looked at the doctor,

"Immature? Childish? Brilliant? Stupid? Beautiful? Smart? Eccentric?" John offered and even Mycroft split a small smile,

"Still," the man who was once described as the government looked about as tired as John felt,

"Still," John said and silence fell on the room, as something flew past the window, momentarily blocking the bright moonlight and bringing the three men out of their little bubble.

There was no movement in any of the corridors of the hospital, not even the nursing staff, sitting at the desks, occasionally going through a patients chart got up, keeping watch with the monitors instead.

The whole city of Melbourne, in fact, from St. Patrick's Cathedral towering into the night to busy Flinders' Street Station, was quiet and empty, resting before the busy day.

In private ward 85, John stared out at the city, so much darker and quieter than London, and wondered, briefly, how, exactly, they managed to end up in situations that always had them questioning what they were doing, with one of them missing because some nutter had taken that person, and one of them, usually, in hospital.

_Fuck it_

"Mycroft as your brother's fiancée, I ask you. Go and save him," John made sure to keep eye contact as Lestrade stared openly at him.

"Fiancée?" the DI looked at John, who didn't look back.

Mycroft, on the other hand, realised that John was not going to listen, and would very probably do himself rather a lot of damage should he try and get out of the bed himself.

"This is ridiculous," Mycroft muttered as he got to his feet, "But I'll do it, if you stay here and out of the way," Lestrade was about to protest when Mycroft raised his hand,

"Otherwise it will not happen," he said, "DI, this includes you," and with that, Mycroft swept out of the room, in his usual dramatic (_pompous,_ Lestrade thought) fashion,

John waited for Greg to remember him and in another second, he did,

"Fiancée?" he asked, spinning around and resisting the urge to grab the doctor's shoulders.

John smiled broadly, realising that was _not_ quite how he intended to tell Greg, "I proposed, he said yes," he said simply and this time, the DI did not feel as happy as perhaps he should have, as he _did_ back in England when he had been told that they were going to be posing as a couple.

Strange things, feelings.

* * *

**It is painfully short, I am aware. And I am sorry.**

**But at least the updates are closer together now, right?**

**:D  
Aza**

**xx**


	38. John

**Chapters, chapter, chapters. Do not ask me where I'm getting this time from, because I believe it may explain the extreme tiredness I am experiencing. **

**:)**

* * *

**CHAPTER 38**

**Howell residence**

**Toorak**

**Melbourne, VIC**

**Australia**

Sherlock had planned his move long before Moriarty had even approached the bed from the side, even as the psychopath was slipping the key into his pocket, and was more than ready to fight as he came closer, ever step reading predator and sending a nervous shiver down the detective's spine.

Calculating perfectly, Sherlock lashed out with a stinging kick to the abdomen that sent the smaller man flying, catching him unawares, so caught up in the idea that Sherlock was _finally_ all his, that he hadn't been paying close enough attention to the detective.

In an instant, Sherlock was off the bed, ignoring the dizziness that hit him as he stood. He made for the door, fully planning on kicking it down, when Moriarty came at him from the side, fury in his expression and the punch that Sherlock knew was going to more than bruise, pushing him up against the wall, bringing them into very, very close contact, so close, in fact, that the green in Moriarty's eyes looked like it might have been glowing.

The consulting detective landed awkwardly as he pushed the criminal away only to trip on the table and roll so that he was in a crouch, sizing Moriarty, close by, up.

The atmosphere in the lavish room had changed completely, not seeming to suit the old furniture and the gilded metal that reflected the light of the Chandelier, hanging above them, moving slightly

From the original calm, almost peaceful sense, one could now have almost tasted the built up tension finally being released,

"So you're going to play hard to get," Moriarty asked, trying to keep his composure, but anger marring what Sherlock might have once considered handsome features, his jet black hair, grown a little longer than normal, having lost its gelled place.

"Maybe," Sherlock panted back, before launching himself forward, grabbing the criminal by the shoulders and going for the pocket where the key was.

Sensing this, Moriarty rolled so that his hip banged into Sherlock, loosening his grip. Moriarty laughed and he pulled himself of the floor, putting some space between them,

"Sherlock, we've only just started. Someone's hands are getting a little adventurous," The detective growled in frustration and also stood up.

There was barely a metre between the two men, both equally observant, both equally smart for either to have the upper hand.

Only the sounds of their rough breaths were heard as they both checked themselves for injuries and assessed the other, "We're even, Sherly," Moriarty said, a pain in his back distracting him slightly, but not enough to lose concentration.

Sherlock, on the other hand was in a severe amount of pain, his formerly bruised ribs now sending sharp pains down his side, cracked from that last blow Moriarty got in. He wondered if he could dive out of the window, but knew the house had three stories and a fall from this high would kill him.

"Shut up," he finally said, taking a step towards Moriarty and watched as the psychopath, who stepped backwards, mirrored the action in reverse, keeping the distance between them the same,

"Shouldn't have come alone, Sherlock," Moriarty said,

'Because you're such a threat?" The detective snapped, his eyes like dark chambers, drawing Moriarty in like never before, the grey so, so cold, so empty and yet like flames as they swept around him, the brilliant mind behind them trying to work a way out of this situation,

"No," Moriarty allowed a small smile to spread, "Because I don't fight fair," and he pulled out a gun from only God knew where.

Sherlock furrowed his brow and the man laughed, "Don't ask, Sherlock, it would be better," he said, guessing the consulting detective's confusion and Sherlock gave him a look of disgust,

"Get in the bed," Moriarty ordered, gesturing with the gun and Sherlock weighed his options. Get in and stay alive but be without control, or stay there and die, but maintain his dignity.

An image of John flashed into his mind, and the thought of never seeing him again, never holding him occurred to a man who once claimed to be a sociopath.

Sherlock relaxed his stance reluctantly and Moriarty grinned, "Good boy," he said, gesturing with the gun again and watched as Sherlock, despite every particle of his being telling him not to, moved towards the bed.

Then the doors blasted inwards.

Sherlock screamed as a splinter of wood entered his leg and he was thrown against the wall with the force from the explosion.

The next few minutes were a blur.

People were yelling and shouting. There was the sound of more breaking glass.

A warm hand was on his elbow, picking him up, talking to him, but he wasn't listening.

With his ears still ringing, Sherlock was searching the room for a body, and it didn't take the dazed man long to realise Moriarty had gone out the window.

His pain numbed by shock, and his mind focused purely on one thing, Sherlock broke free of the hand that was holding him.

He was sure there was a lot of yelling as he took a running leap out of the window to fall onto something that acted as a slide, but was invisible. At a guess, it was some clear fabric that Moriarty had set up just in case Sherlock hadn't come alone. Which he had, but as usual, he never went unwatched.

_Bloody Mycroft._

The detective landed hard on the grass but didn't stop to let the adrenaline wear off, to let his hearing equate, to listen to anyone above, yelling his name. The warm blood soaking his left leg was ignored as he spotted a figure running around the building, somewhat slowly, and with rather a strange gait.

Gathering every last iota of strength he had left, Sherlock ran after him, gritting his teeth as jarring pain went up his leg, reverberated around his body and leaving him gasping for air. There was only one thought that didn't let him slow down.

_John_

This was the bastard who almost took his most precious, beautiful, gorgeous, stupid man away from him. And that was an unforgivable crime.

Sherlock rounded the corner and found the figure that he was now certain was Moriarty resting against the brick wall of the mansion, stooped but still standing. Sherlock slowed to a walk, every step causing excruciating pain.

The grass below his feet was damp from the chill night, and the moon cast its slanted light to reveal more of Moriarty's features as the detective approached, looking ghostly and pale in the white light.

There was no sound now, the agents voices on the other side having faded away completely, leaving Sherlock alone once again with Moriarty.

"Always chasing me, Sherlock," the consulting criminal still managed a small grin, and Sherlock stopped, barely a metre away, resting against the wall, refusing to give in to the urge to sit down, his eyes on the criminal's abdomen, "Tell the senior Holmes it was a fun game," Sherlock didn't break eye contact with Moriarty as the criminal looked up at him, and a drop of blood rolled off his lips, his once bright eyes showing only pain,

'It could have been different," Sherlock suddenly blurted out and Moriarty allowed himself a chuckle, clutching his midriff. Sherlock was sure the suit was soaked in blood by now, the criminal's hands having been turned entirely red, showing even more clearly in the moonlight.

"I'm dying, Sherlock, don't lie to me," he slid down the wall with a groan and Sherlock wondered if it were normal to watch another human in so much pain and not help. For once, he silenced John in the back of his head. He was not the compassionate doctor. And the man in front of him could not count as a human being,

"You always would have…" Moriarty paused a moment, unable to get the words out as he took a gasping breath,

_Ribs shattered by shrapnel from the door, punctured lungs, collapsed one, serious internal haemorrhaging, fifty-eight seconds until unconscious. _These thoughts went through Sherlock's mind like a soft breeze, no effort, no trace, stirring no emotion. _Three minutes until death._ Moriarty continued,

"Chosen your pet over me,"

"Say his name," Sherlock said, feeling the world sway as blood continued to soak his leg. He could feel it in his shoe, and he knew he needed to sit down but actually couldn't bring himself to. Moriarty , with some difficulty raised his head, coughing up blood as he did so. His next words, were slurred,

"No. He took what was rightfully…mine," the consulting criminal, the only man to ever provide a real challenge to Sherlock closed his eyes, and spoke for the last time, "John…"

Sherlock watched as the destroyed body heaved in one more breath, before that stopped too and Moriarty's head lolled to the side, the world's only consulting criminal most definitely dead.

Sherlock didn't take his eyes of the body as his own laboured breaths filled the night and finally, with the aid of the smooth, cold brick wall he slid down to the ground, a moan of agony escaping his lips.

He sat there for a moment, _He's dead_, was the first thought as his eyes left the body and looked at the place there were in. Tall, clipped hedges lined the small walkway, which Moriarty had no doubt intended to go down, and rose bushes acted like guards of honour along the gravelled path, the fence not visible in the dim lighting, the grounds seeming to stretch forever in the late night.

Sherlock heard the voice before the footsteps on the gravel as the men, whom he had little doubt were hired by Mycroft, searched for them.

"John," Sherlock muttered, smiling at the name on his lips. As the criminal said it, it had just sounded wrong, like it was a word that just didn't belong and Sherlock sighed, in what he hoped was not too dramatic a way before he realised just what a strange thought that was, considering they were completely alone.

_I need some sleep_.

Sherlock closed his eyes and marvelled at how he nearly always ended up in hospital at some point of whatever they were doing.

_Oh well._

He could request to be put in John's room this time.

The voices were nearer and the footsteps louder as Sherlock slipped away, but for the first time since that night at the pool, the consulting detective realised something.

From off his shoulders, it felt as if a great weight had been lifted off – John was safe, and so was he.

Looks like happy endings were conceivable.

* * *

**You can probably tell we're wrapping things up, but it's not the end yet. There's a few more things I need to do.**

**:P**

**No cliff hangers for once, eh?**

**Thanks for all you support!**

**Aza**

**xx**


	39. Home

**HELLO! I'm back for the final time in Bed of Roses: MI6!**

* * *

**CHAPTER 39**

**0500**

**Royal Prince Alfred Hospital**

**Melbourne, VIC**

**Australia**

Lestrade tried not to feel too agitated as he paced the corridor, the heels of his polished dress shoes clicking smartly with each step.

Almost more than year ago, he had been standing in a hospital, with two of his best friends, having survived great trauma, and now, those same two were lying in a hospital again.

At least they had the decency to wait until they were overseas, this time.

Sally, also wearing a suit, her hair pulled back into a rough ponytail, watched with a baleful stare as Lestrade kept pacing, wondering if slapping her boss was a good idea,

"Boss," she said his name with an exhale and he stilled, looking at her. The sterile white lights showed every dark circle under his green eyes brought on by what was becoming far too much stress, and Sally didn't know where to look,

"Yeah?' he rasped, slightly worried at the sound of his own voice, and annoyed that it cracked slightly,

"Sit down, please," she finally managed and much to her surprise, the stubborn man obliged, letting out a huff of air as he fell into the seat next to her.

They had been here almost four hours, waiting for admission into Sherlock's room. John had to be sedated because the medic had actually tried to unhook himself and go and see Sherlock, when the news reached them that Sherlock was alive and being brought to the hospital. Lestrade had told them it was better to wait before telling him, but at the same time realised it wasn't fair to keep John in suspense.

All through the mayhem, Mycroft had flitted in and out, bringing reports from London, one of which consisted of an ecstatic Stone, and one with a not too jubilant Police Commissioner, who found himself congratulating the controversial DI Lestrade.

Mycroft had said they were to come back _immediately_, Sherlock and John or not, because there was paperwork to be done, and reports to be filled and as the consulting detective and his doctor were not a part of Scotland Yard, and were already discharged from the army, they were no longer needed.

Lestrade almost kicked Mycroft out as a smug smile made its way onto the man's face.

He tried not to notice the slight hurt as what was obviously intended to be humour fell flat, because that hardly constituted a joke.

Or that is sent a little twinge of sadness through him as Mycroft left.

Or that he was still thinking about it, one hour, six minutes and, Lestrade checked his watch, fifty seconds later.

The DI looked over to Sally who was watching him with an apprehensive look on her face, "What?" he asked, the word coming out harsher than he intended, and he didn't understand when a smile broke out on her face,

"Go after him, Greg," she said and he felt like he had been jolted with a couple thousand volts of electricity,

"Pardon?" he asked and this time, his sergeant laughed out aloud, the sound ringing around the empty corridor, metal gleaming silver, paint painfully white,

"Go and get Mycroft and say sorry, and then ask him out to dinner," Lestrade threw her an incredulous look, playing with the lapels of his midnight blue suit,

"Are you mad?" he asked, trying to keep the same tone of voice,

"I will be if you don't do it because I've been watching you brood over him for the past hour," Lestrade shut his mouth and looked down at his feet.

He mumbled something and Sally raised an eyebrow,

'What was that?" she asked, and the DI looked up, now thoroughly embarrassed that he could even be thinking, let alone talking about – about – about – _this _when they still hadn't seen Sherlock because the Doctors wanted every precautionary measure taken and Sherlock's reputation for being almost immune to sedation followed him around. It wasn't nice. Or right. Or needed. Or - damn it.

"I'm not brooding," he finally said and it was all Sally could do to not clap her hands together in excitement,

"Oh finally!" she exclaimed, a true smile breaking through, and she noticed it was taking the DI a bit of effort to keep the smile off his face.

The worry Sherlock put them through, and then the anger that came in waves in between the worry had worn her, and this entire mission, in fact had made her feel like she had been in way over her head. Now, here was something she _could_ deal with.

"You like him!" She squealed and Lestrade rolled his eyes, trying to maintain nonchalance but knowing that his cheeks were a fiery red,

"We're not in bloody high school," he said, still mumbling, but in the silence, he was fully aware Sally would hear,

"I don't care," she said, grabbing his arm, "Take him out tonight!" she said and Lestrade's gaze snapped back up to her, slight fear in them,

'Can we please-" before he could finish his sentence, they were interrupted,

"Excuse me," they looked up to see a pretty, young nurse with a heavy Australian accent standing in front of them, looking much more tired than she should,

"You two waiting for Mr. Holmes?"

They both stood up, "Yes, DI Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan," The nurse shook their hands and led them off down the corridor,

"Mr. Holmes has just woken up and hasn't stopped abusing every doctor that has walked in and tried to tell him what was wrong with him. We've more or less given up," she looked rather harassed and Lestrade empathised. That had been him, in a completely different situation not so long ago,

_When my job resembled normalcy_, he added and tried not to chuckle, because the nurse was still going on about Sherlock's antics to an amused Sally and the DI didn't want her anger to be taken out on him.

They rounded the corner and the nurse pulled back a curtain to a cubicle in the emergency department, before leaving them quickly.

Lestrade felt like someone had hit him over the head as he took in what was presented to him,

There, in the bed, was the untouchable Sherlock Holmes – black eye, split lip and various other lacerations to his once unmarred face, showing far too clearly in the white light, dimmed for the early hours of the morning.

"Sherlock," Sally ran up and hugged him, heedless of the doctor's cries of warning and Sherlock's look of 'come near me and face the consequences'.

To the DI's greatest shock though, Sherlock hugged back, albeit, slowly and painfully.

"I thought – you IDIOT!" Sally yelled the last word and Sherlock winced. Lestrade turned to the doctor,

"We'll look after him," he said and the doctor nodded, closing the chart gratefully,

"Thankyou," he said, and, placing it on the stand, he hurried out of the room, happy to leave the troublesome patient.

"Sherlock," Lestrade smiled and the consulting detective replied likewise, "You are in so much trouble," the DI couldn't stop smiling though and Sherlock laughed roughly, wincing as he moved his ribs, and the injured part of his leg rubbed against the blankets, smooth as they were.

"Not as much as you will be if you actually _do_ ask my brother out tonight," Sherlock couldn't help himself, a smug smile finding a way onto his lips, even though that really hurt too.

Lestrade all but deflated. Had he made it that obvious?

"No," Sherlock answered the question and Sally laughed,

"Freak," she said, but the note of tenderness was not missed by any in the make-shift room as she patted his arm,

"Anyway," she turned to the DI, who was leaning against the side of Sherlock's bed, looking the detective over properly, "We've got a flight to catch,"

"Back to London?" Sherlock asked, the note of longing quite clear and Lestrade nodded with a sigh,

"We've been recalled, you and John get to stay here for as long as you like," Sherlock scoffed,

"I'm getting out of here," he said, and Sally laughed,

'Considering John's not allowed to fly anywhere for at least another month, I doubt it," Sherlock's eyes lit up at the mention of his doctor,

'Have you seen him?" he didn't wait for a reply, "Of course, no they wouldn't let him see me. Good. He'd only get angry,"

It was Lestrade's turn to get one over Sherlock,

'You have no idea," he said and Sherlock turned to him, "He's going to skin you alive when he so much as allowed to take a step," the consulting detective tried not to look worried, but was aware he was failing,

"Don't worry," Sally patted his arm in congenial way, "He'll keep you alive, he needs you for certain reasons," she winked and the DI would have given anything for a camera as a light blush spread across Sherlock's cheeks,

"Shut up," he muttered and received an even bigger smile for his troubles.

"But we really have to go," she said and Sherlock sighed,

'Of with you then," he waved a hand and Lestrade shook his head as he gathered himself,

'We're not your servants," he said and Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, and Sally took her Boss' arm,

"I'll tell you how the date goes!" she said and Lestrade rolled his eyes, but actually found himself smiling.

Now all he needed to do was call John as soon as he could and ask him, how, exactly, does one ask Mycroft Holmes out on a date.

* * *

**1000**

**Royal Prince Alfred Hospital**

**Melbourne, VIC**

**Australia**

Sherlock limped down the corridor, wondering momentarily if he was masochistic.

He was going to see John.

And, if reports from the nurses were right, the expletives from John, about him, had been going all morning. Especially after a call from London.

In fact, the doctors told him perhaps it would be better if he waited a little while before going to see John.

However, Sherlock winced as he accidentally put too much pressure on his right leg, the world's only consulting detective decided that he had waited far too long for John to be entirely his, to back out now.

If he lived through the next ten minutes, that is.

Sherlock paused in front of the ward door and, summoning up his strength and his courage, opened it.

The sun was coming in at a slanted angle, throwing a homely, warm glow around the small, private room. John was playing solitaire and the golden light bounced off his blonde hair and tanned and lightly muscled skin, the doctor's shirt off for the time being in the warm room as he sat on the bed.

Outside, through the big easterly facing windows, Sherlock could see people several stories down, in the gardens, moving around, and the sky was a clear, crisp blue, the sun bright, not a single cloud in sight.

Sherlock assessed his doctor for a moment. His breathing was still much shallower than it should be, but he was sitting up, and obviously had free movement of his hands. Also, judging by the fact that he had his legs crossed, he was recovering well.

Sherlock traced the planes of the doctor's body one more time, wondering how, for the umpteenth time, he managed to stay so fit when Sherlock was yet to see him actually workout.

"You can stop ogling me from the door and come in, Sherlock," the detective was so startled he forgot to limp as he started forward and yelped as pain raced up his leg.

Immedaitely, John's expression went from playful to worry,

'Sherlock!" he called but the detective waved him off, closing the door behind him and limping over, smiling all the way at being caught, so many emotions racing through him, he was at a loss for words.

"When did you get so observant?" he finally asked, his eyes his running over the doctor again and again, drinking him in, as if he could never get enough of seeing him. John looked up at the detective, tilting his neck and Sherlock stopped breathing. Every time, Sherlock had gotten lost in the blue eyes and found himself doing so again – until the love in them darkened to something else,

"When you decided to go and commit bloody suicide," the doctor rumbled in answer and Sherlock knew the storm was about to hit,

"What is wrong with you?" John asked, pushing the table away, staring at the detective. He was taking in the injuries he knew Sherlock had sustained and wondering why they weren't worse before hitting himself and remembering it was Sherlock.

"Nothing," Sherlock replied, sitting on the end of the bed, not looking at John.

That choice was taken away as John, with a wince, actually dragged him up the bed by grabbing his arm, forcing him to make eye contact as he was spun around slightly,

"Do you have any _idea_ what you put me through?" the doctor asked through clenched teeth and Sherlock swallowed,

"I was-"

"Shut up," and John didn't bother with words.

Instead he pulled Sherlock into a kiss that should not, by Sherlock's calculations, have been possible, considering John's injuries.

Not that he was complaining.

By the end of it, neither of them necessarily knew which way was up anymore, but that didn't really matter to either men, so completely immersed in their world,

"If you ever," John started, making sure he kept eye contact, fear and anger and love and irritation and every bloody emotion he had felt in the last twenty four hours fighting for first spot in his mind, "and I mean _ever_ try something so phenomenally stupid again, I will kill you myself,"

There was silence as Sherlock just let himself _be_ with John, resting his forehead against John's collarbone.

Their situation was sometimes just so unbelievable.

The detective had never thought he would ever find another person interesting and fascinating all at the same time.

Then he met John.

He had never thought he would like a person because_ everyone_ was boring.

Then he met John.

And honest to God, he had never thought he would even want to fall in love with someone.

Then he met John.

"Yes Sir," Sherlock whispered, his lips brushing the doctor's neck, and he felt the shiver that went through him.

It was a few more minutes before either said anything, Sherlock having found himself quite comfortable and unwilling to move away.

"You know," John was threading his hands through the detective's hair, already having missed everything about him,

'What?" Sherlock asked,

"We still have a wedding to plan," Sherlock felt himself go red again, and this time, when he pulled John into a kiss, it was one filled with the promise of oh so much more to come.

* * *

**Sometime later**

It wasn't long before they were back in London again, John having being released from the hospital three weeks into their stay. The British Embassy had their tickets and everything waiting for them at a call from Sherlock, and then they were home.

Returning to 221b Baker Street was the best thing either had done in a long time.

They had met up with Lestrade and Mycroft, both of whom were trying to be subtle about their newfound relationship, but John really didn't class 'subtle' as snogging in the loo of the pub.

Mycroft was going to deny that for as long as he shall live, no matter how funny Greg found it.

Sarah welcomed John back with open arms and was not at all pleased to see he had been hurt again, and was still cold as ever towards Sherlock.

Sherlock went back to work with Lestrade, but this time, after his work with Moriarty, was actually on the payroll of Scotland Yard and a freelance worker, meaning that Sherlock now had a boss.

Much to the detective's chagrin and John's amusement.

They still ran out of milk every now and then, and John came home from work to find a cat, three puppies and a mouse all on his favourite chair, but he couldn't find a reason to complain, because he could truly say, even as he yelled at Sherlock and warned him he was going to throw every last experiment out, that he had found home.

He had found his Sherlock.

* * *

**And that's it. **

**I Don't know whether to cry or laugh so I'll settle for something in between. :3**

**THANKYOU ALL SO MUCH! For sticking around and putting up with the ridiculous gaps between updates.**

**This is definitely not my last story, and we STILL HAVE A WEDDING TO PLAN remember? ;P**

**See you all soon!**

**BYE!**

**Aza**

**xx**


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